)rma 

al 

7 


t  LIBRARY 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
CALIFORNIA 
SAN  01  EGO 


THROUGH  THE  TORIi 


''  I  do  not  know  whether  the  essay  is  a  Japanese 
literary  form,  but  if  it  is  not  Mr.  Noguchi  has  perfectly 
realised  its  possibilities,  and  lias  used  it  in  a  manner 
which  makes  our  most  delicate  masters  seem  rather 
heavy-handed.  For  Mr.  Noguchi,  though  he  has  lived 
much  in  England  and  America,  and  knows  English 
literature  well,  has  accepted  nothing  from  the  West  which 
might  spoil  his  native  virtues-  .  .  Himself  we 

may  describe— not  necessarily  exhaustively — as  a  mystical 
dandy." — FRANCIS  BICKLEY  IN  THE  BOOKMAN  (London). 

"  Noguchi's  essays  leave  one  ad  vanced  in  a  conception 
of  beauty,  and  enlarged  in  understanding;  and  that  is 
not  altogether  familiar  experience  in  bookreading." — THE 
ACADEMY. 


Other  Books  by  Yone  ISoguchi 

Seen  and  Unseen.     Orientalia,  New  York. 
The  Voice  of  the  Valley.     Out  of  Print. 

The  American  Diary  of  a  Japanese  Girl.      Out,  of 

Print. 

From  the  Eastern  Sea.     Elkin  Mathews,  London. 
The  Pilgrimage.      Elkin  Mathews,  London. 
Lafcadio  Hearn  in  Japan.     Elkin  Mathews,  London. 
The  Spirit  of  Japanese  Poetry.     John  Murray,  London. 
The  Spirit  of  Japanese  Art.      John  Murray,  London. 

The  Story  of  Yone  Noguchi.     Chatto  and  Windus, 

London. 

Japanese  Hokkus.      The  Four  Seas  Company,  Boston. 
Hiroshige.      Orientalia,  New  York. 

Selected  Poems  of  Yone  Noguchi.     The  Four  Seas 

Company,  Boston. 


THROUGH  THE  TORI1 


BY 


YONE  NOGUCHI 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1922 


IK  JAPAN 


TO 
EDMUND  GOSSE 


CONTENTS 

Page 

KYOTO » 

* 

NIKKO *  8 

TOKYO l6 

THE  HOLY  HOUSES  OF  SLEEP      ...  21 

DAIBUTSU 27 

SPRING  IN  JAPAN 34 

THE  WILLOW-TREE  WOMAN        ...  39 

THE  EAST  ;     THE  WEST 45 

HIBACHI 53 

THE  DECLINE  OF  THE  JAPANESE  TASTE 

OF  TONGUE 58 

THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  DECEMBER     .        .  66 

A  HANDKERCHIEF 74 

MORNING-GLORY 78 

THE  JAPANESE  PLUM-BLOSSOM  ...  84 

CHRYSANTHEMUM      ....*.  88 

CHERRY-BLOSSOM 93 

A  JAPANESE  ON  THE  POET  ROSSETTI      .  98 

A  JAPANESE  ON  WHISTLER  ....  104 
A  JAPANESE  NOTE  ON  YEATS      .         .         .no 

OSCAR  WILDE 118 

WHAT  IS  THE  HOKKU  POEM  126 


AGAIN  ON  HOKKU 140 

ON  POETRY 149 

THE  MORNING  FANCY 152 

INSULARITY 156 

MY  ATTITUDE  TOWARDS  THE  FLOWERS  161 

FAITH 165 

THE  MOODS 167 

LIFE 169 

HAPPINESS 172 

BEAUTIES 175 

TRUTH 178 

UGLINESS 181 

NETSUKES 183 

FROM  A  JAPANESE  INK  SLAB  .  195 


KYOTO 

THE  noisy  time  has  slipped  away  even 
gracefully  at  Kyoto.  (I  see  that  it— the  bar- 
barian of  modern  type — has  still  a  certain 
amount  of  etiquette  in  Japan.)  Content  is  so 
natural  and  even  becoming  here  (at  other  places 
it  is  almost  outlandish  and  at  the  same  time 
the  most  expensive  thing  to  acquire),  when  one 
passes  through  the  dustless  streets  of  Kyoto, 
where  the  little  houses  with  moss-eaten  dark 
tiles  humbly  beg  for  their  temporary  existence 
on  promise  not  to  disturb  the  natural  harmony 
with  the  green  mountains  and  the  temples  that 
the  holy  spirits  built.  How  different  from 
the  foreign  houses,  red  or  white,  seeming  even 
to  push  away  the  old-fashioned  Nature  with 
vain  splenduor  of  scorn.  The  Kyoto  people, 
the  moth-spirits  or  butterfly-ghosts,  are  bom  for 
pleasure-making,  and  to  sip  the  tea.  I  say 
pleasure-making,  but  not  in  the  modem  mean- 
ing ;  the  modern  pleasure-making  is  rather  a 
forced  production  of  criticism,  therefore  often 
oppressive  and  always  explanatory  in  attitude. 
I  say  they  sip  the  tea ;  I  do  not  mean  the  black 


tea  or  the  red  tea  which  the  Western  people 
drink,  calling  it  Oriental  tea  ;  but  I  mean  that 
pale  green  tea,  so  mild  that  it  does  not  kill  the 
taste  of  boiled  water.  It  is  the  high  art  of 
the  tea-master  to  make  you  really  taste  the 
water  beside  the  taste  of  the  tea  ;  he  is  very 
particular  about  the  water  when  he  is  going  to 
make  the  tea  ;  I  am  told  that  his  keen  tongue 
at  once  differentiates  the  waters  from  a  well  or 
a  stream,  and  he  can  distinguish  even  the  season 
from  the  taste  of  the  water,  whether  it  be  spring 
or  autumn.  He  always  laughs  at  the  attempt 
to  make  tea  with  the  ready  water  from  a  screw 
in  the  kitchen,  which  most  unpoetically  comes 
through  the  tube  from  a  certain  reservoir. 
We  do  not  call  you  a  real  tea-drinker  when 
you  think  you  only  drink  the  tea ;  you 
must  really  taste  the  fragrance  and  spirits  of 
tender  leaves  of  a  living  tea-tree,  which  grew 
by  accident  and  fortune  under  a  particular  sun- 
light and  rain.  And,  of  course,  more  than  that, 
you  must  learn  how  to  sip  the  tea  philosoph- 
ically ;  I  mean  that  you  must  taste,  through 
the  medium  of  a  teacup,  the  general  atmosphere, 
grey  and  silent.  And  there  is  no  better  place 


than  Kyoto,  the  capital  of  the  mediaeval,    to  Kyoto 

drink  tea  as  a  real  tea-sipper. 

A  few  days  ago  I  enjoyed  a  little  play 
(comedy,  but  poetry),  "  Sakura  Shigure,"  or 
"  The  Cherry-blossom  Shower,"  by  my  friend 
Gekko  Takayasu — the  play  is  the  love 
between  Yoshino  and  Saburobei.  Yoshino 
was  a  courtesan  of  four  or  five  hundred  years 
ago — of  course,  not  in  the  modern  sense,  but 
a  type  which  the  Tosa  school  artists  were 
happy  to  paint,  the  most  famous  beauty  of  that 
age  whose  name  was  known  even  to  China, 
although  it  was  the  age  of  isolation.  It  is  said 
that  Li  Shozan,  the  Chinese  poet,  sent  her  a 
poem  written  on  his  meeting  with  her  in  a 
dream.  It  is  written  in  Okagami :  "  Her 
temperament  was  sprightly ;  she  was  wise. 
Her  charming  spirit  was  impressive ;  she  was 
at  once  free  in  disposition,  and  again  sympathet- 
ic in  feeling."  Yoshino  was  a  rare  personality; 
and  it  was  the  age  when  dignity  and  freedom 
were  well  protected  even  for  a  courtesan  ;  in 
truth,  she  was  in  no  way  different  from 
the  maiden  at  a  palace  of  the  Heian  period. 
Yoshino  was  a  character  which  only  the 


Thiough        Kyoto   atmosphere  and   culture   could   create, 
Tori;  an<^   I    congratulate    the    dramatist    Takayasu, 

whose  perfect  assimilation  with  Kyoto  made 
him  able  to  produce  this  play.  The  play  opens 
with  the  scene  where  Yoshino  is  leaving  the 
house  of  pleasure  with  her  lover,  Saburobei, 
who  has  been  disinherited  by  his  wealthy 
family  on  her  account,  only  to  find  the  real 
meaning  of  life  and  love.  The  story  is  interest- 
ing ;  but  I  am  not  going  to  tell  it,  as  it  is  not  the 
very  point  for  my  purpose. 

The  second  scene  is  a  cottage,  wretched 
but  artistic,  as  the  inmates  are  Yoshino  and 
her  husband.  I  see  in  the  background  the 
mountains  of  Higashi  Yama,  Kiyomizu,  and 
Toribe,  to  whose  protection  Kyoto,  whom 
1  love,  clings  with  almost  human  passion.  The 
house  is  wretched,  but  the  presence  of  Yoshino 
— now  housewifely,  but  having  an  unforgotten 
glimmer  of  gaiety  of  her  past  life,  makes  the 
whole  atmosphere  perfectly  tantalising.  The 
season  is  autumn  (Kyoto's  autumn  sweet  and 
sad) ;  the  leaves  fall.  And  again,  as  the 
season  is  autumn,  we  have  at  Kyoto  a  frequent 
shower,  as  we  see  it  on  ths  stage  presently  ; 


and  that  shower,  light  but  very  lonesome,  is 
necessary,  as  it  made  Shoyu,  father  of  Saburo- 
bei,  of  course  a  stranger,  find  his  shelter  under 
Yoshino' s  roof.  Yoshino  welcomed  him  in, 
and  offered  him  a  cup  of  tea.  He  was  taken 
to  admiration  while  he  looked  on  her  way  to 
make  tea,  as  he  was  no  mean  tea-master.  He 
became  on  the  spot  an  unconditional  admirer 
of  his  forgotton  son's  wife,  whom  he  had 
cursed  and  despised  without  any  acquaintance. 
I  said  already  that  you  should  come  to  Kyoto 
to  drink  tea  ;  I  say  again  that  even  at  Kyoto 
you  must  drink  it  while  listening  to  the  voice 
of  rain ;  better  than  that,  of  the  autumnal 
shower,  sad  but  musical,  which  is  spiritual, 
therefore  Oriental.  It  is  the  keynote  of  the 
tea,  of  the  old  capital  of  Japan,  and  again  my 
friend's  play.  What  happens  next  when 
Shoyu  finds  in  Yoshino  a  tea-drinker,  and  an 
admirable  woman,  too,  would  be,  I  believe, 
the  next  question  you  will  ask  me.  It  is 
prosaic  to  answer  it,  and  it  will  end  as  any 
other  comedy  always  ends.  And  it  would  be 
better  to  make  it  end  as  you  please ;  that  is 
not  the  real  point.  The  main  thing  is  the  tea 


Through        anj  tne  autumnal   shower,   the  soul  of  poetry 

Tom  *kat  IS  Kyoto. 

You  are  bound  to  be  sad  sooner  or  later  in 
Tokyo  or  any  other  city  of  modern  type,  where 
you  will  find  yourself  as  a  straying  ghost  in  a 
human  desert ;  there  the  dream  would  die  at 
once  as  a  morning  glory  under  the  sunlight. 
While  I  admit  that  the  weariness  is,  in  fact, 
the  highest  poetry  of  the  Eastern  nature,  I  will 
say  that  Tokyo's  weariness  is  a  kind  that  has 
lost  beauty  and  art;  and  the  weariness  at 
Kyoto  is  a  kind  that  has  soared  out  of  them. 
That  is  the  difference ;  but  it  is  a  great  dif- 
ference. As  there  is  the  poetry  of  weariness 
at  Kyoto — the  highest  sort  of  Oriental  poetry 
— it  is  your  responsive  mind  that  makes  you  at 
once  join  with  great  eternity  and  space ;  it  is 
most  easy  there  to  forget  time  and  hours.  It 
seems  to  me  that  nothing  is  more  out  of  place 
at  Kyoto  than  a  newspaper.  When  you  used 
to  know  the  time  of  day  or  night  you  have 
only  to  wait  for  a  temple  bell  to  ring  out ;  you 
would  be  more  happy  not  to  be  stung  by  the 
tick-tack  of  clock.  Sanyo  Rai,  the  eminent 
scholar  of  some  sixty  years  ago,  wrote  an 


invitation  to  his   friend   saying   that  he  would  Kyoto 

expect  him  to  come   "  at  the  time  when  the 

mountain  grows  purple  and  the  water  clear." 

Indeed,  it  is  the  very  hour  of  autumn  evening 

at   Kyoto  where   Nature   presents   the   varied 

aspect  by  which  you  can  judge  the  exact  time. 

By  the  mountain,   Rai  means  Higashi  Yama  ; 

by  the  water,  of  course,   Kamo  Gawa.      It  is 

the  happy  old  city,  this  Kyoto,    whose  poetical 

heart  exchanges  beauty  and   faith  with  Nature. 

It  is  only  here,  even   in  Japan,  that  Nature  is 

almost  human,  like  you  and  me. 


Through  NIKKO 

the 

Torii 

IT  is  difficult  to  take  a  neutral  attitude  towards 

the  temples  at  Nikko,  although  indifference 
is  said  to  be  the  "  highest "  of  Japanese 
attitudes  ;  I  mean  there  are  only  two  ways — 
like  or  dislike — for  their  barbarous  splendour  in 
gold  and  red  lacquer  deprived  of  the  inspiration 
of  the  imagination  and  melancholy,  definite  to 
the  limit.  And  it  altogether  depends  on  one's 
mood ;  if  a  man's  large  stomach  is  well  filled 
(also  his  purse),  their  despotic  wealth  would 
not  be  too  overwhelming,  and  he  might  even 
be  disposed  to  sing  their  eternal  beauty  as  the 
ultimate  achievement  of  human  endeavour.  I 
believe  I  have  been  sometimes  in  such  a  state 
myself.  But  the  pessimistic  mind,  critical  even 
where  criticism  is  not  called  for,  skipping  all 
the  physical  expression  for  the  spiritual  com- 
munication, will  find  Nikko  a  sad  dilettantism 
of  art,  at  the  best  a  mere  apology  of  a  squan- 
dering mind ;  there  is  nothing  more  unhappy 
than  wastefulness  in  the  orld  of  art.  It  is 
not  the  real  Japanese  mind,  I  think,  to  build  a 
house  for  the  dead,  as  I  know  that  it  goes 


straight  towards  associating  the  dead  with  trees, 
mountains,  water,  winds,  shadows,  deer,  ravens, 
foxes,  wolves,  and  bears,  and  uses  to  leave 
them  to  the  care  of  the  sun  and  moon ;  indeed, 
it  was  the  unlettered  samurai  mind  to  build 
such  temples  as  I  see  at  this  Nikko,  afraid  to 
return  to  the  gray  elements  and  wishing  to  find 
a  shelter  even  after  death  in  materialism.  Or 
it  might  be  more  true  to  say  that  it  originated 
in  the  complete  surrender  to  Buddhism ;  and  it 
may  not  be  too  much  to  say  that  India  begins 
right  here  from  Nikko,  in  the  same  sense  that 
Tokyo  of  the  present  age  is  spiritually  a  part 
of  London  or  New  York.  We  have  only  a 
few  pages  in  the  whole  Japanese  history  where 
we  are  perfectly  independent. 

Whether  it  is  fortunate  or  not,  my  recent 
evolution  of  mind  is  that  I  have  ceased  to  see 
the  fact  itself,  and  what  I  am  glad  to  indulge 
in  is  the  reflection  of  its  psychological  relation 
with  other  facts  ;  how  thankful  I  am  for  the 
gate  tower  carved  with  phoenixes  and  peonies, 
the  large  pagoda  in  red  and  gold,  now  loitering 
round  the  holy  precincts  of  the  Nikko  temples, 
since  the  very  fact  of  their  existence  makes, 


Through        through  the  virtue  of  contrast,  the  cryptomenas 
the  •    ,  .  .  IT- 

Torii  and   mountains   greener,   the  waters  and   skies 

bluer,  and  besides,  the  human  soul  intenser.-  I 
am  happy  in  my  coming  to  Nikko  in  the  month 
of  May  when  the  beauty  of  Nature  quickens 
itself  from  the  pain  of  passing  Spring,  and  with 
the  sunlight  that  overflows  from  the  bosom  of 
hope ;  your  appreciation  of  Nikko  would  not 
be  perfect  till  you  see  the  wealth  and  grandeur 
of  Nature's  greenness ;  it  is  the  beauty  of 
cryptomerias  and  waters  rather  than  that  of  the 
temples.  And  you  will  feel  encouraged  when 
you  observe  the  real  fact,  how  even  the  bar- 
barity of  human  work  can  calm  down  before 
Nature,  and  happier  still  how  they  can  form  a 
good  friendship  with  one  another  for  creating 
the  one  perfect  art  known  as  Nikko.  I  am 
glad  to  see  the  proof  of  power  of  a  Japanese 
landscape  artist  who  could  use  his  art  on  a 
large  scale  as  I  see  it  here,  not  merely  in  a 
small  city  garden  ;  my  mind,  which  was  slightly 
upset  from  the  artistic  confusion  of  the  temples 
belonging  to  lyeyasu  the  Great,  soon  recovered 
its  original  serenity  in  seeing  the  most  beautiful 
arrangement  of  temples  of  lyemitsu,  the  Third 
zo 


Shogun  of  Tokugawa  family,  with  the  hills 
and  trees,  quite  apart  from  his  grandfather's ; 
what  a  gentle  feeling  of  solemnity,  as  old  as 
that  of  a  star,  what  a  quiet  and  golden 
splendour  here  !  The  arrangement  might  be 
compared  with  the  feminine  beauty  of  gems 
most  carefully  set.  When  I  looked  upon  the 
temples  from  the  Mitarashiya,  or  the  "  House 
where  you  wash  your  Honourable  Hands," 
below,  they  impressed  my  mind  as  if  a  house 
of  dream  built  by  the  Dragon  Kings  under- 
neath the  seas,  that  I  and  you  often  see  on  the 
Japanese  fan  ;  I  looked  down,  when  I  stood 
by  the  gate  tower  of  the  Niwo  gods,  over  that 
water-fountain  below,  where  the  spirits  of 
poesy  were  soon  floating  on  the  sunlight ;  it 
was  natural  to  become  a  passionate  adorer  of 
the  Nature  of  May  here  like  Basho,  who 
wrote  in  his  seventeen  syllable  hokku : 

Ah,  how  sublime  — 

The  green  leaves,  the  young  leaves, 

In  the  light  of  the  sun  ! 

1   very   well  understand   how   lyeyasu,    the 
Supreme    Highness,   Lord    of   the    East,    that 


Through        Great  Incarnation,  escaped  the  temple  of  gold 
Torii  an<^  re<^  laco,uer>  and  wished   to   sleep  in  a  hill 

behind,  in  silence,  and  shadow ;  now  I  am 
climbing  up  the  long  and  high  steps  to  make 
him  my  obeisance  where  a  hundred  large 
cryptomerias  stand  reverent  as  sentinels.  What 
peace !  What  broke  the  silence  was  the 
sudden  voice  of  water  and  the  sutra-reading  of 
priests ;  a  moment  ago  the  crows  in  threes, 
twos,  and  fours  flew  away  and  dropped  into 
the  unseen  just  like  the  human  mortals  who 
have  only  to  stay  here  for  a  little  while.  Under 
my  feet  I  found  a  small  hairy  caterpillar  also 
climbing  up  the  stone  steps  like  myself.  Oh  ! 
tell  me  who  art  thou  ?  And  what  difference  is 
there  between  us  human  beings  and  the 
caterpillar?  Are  we  not  caterpillar  who 
may  live  little  longer?  But  I  tell  you  that  is 
a  difference  of  no  particular  value,  I  met 
with  a  group  of  Western  tourists  in  the  middle 
of  the  steps,  who  hurried  down  ;  they  set  my 
mind  thinking  on  the  anti-Christian  terrorism 
of  lyeyasu  and  other  princes,  the  Japanese 
Neroes,  awful  and  glorious.  It  is  not  strange 
that  they  are  shaking  hands  in  sleep  with 
12 


the    Westerners    whom    they    hated    with    all  Nikko 

their  hearts  ? 

The  words  of  my  friend  when  I  bade  fare- 
well to  him  in  New  York  suddenly  returned  to 
me  when  now  the  weather  has  changed,  and 
even  rain  has  begun  to  fall ;  my  friend  artist 
who  had  stayed  and  sketched  here  long  ago 
said  to  me :  '  There  were  many  idols  of 
the  Jizo  god,  the  guardian  deity  of  children, 
standing  by  the  Daiyagawa  River  of  Nikko ; 
I  loved  them,  particularly  one  called  the  Father 
or  Mother,  from  its  large  size,  whom  I  sketched 
most  humbly.  You  see  that  Nantai  Mountain 
appears  and  disappears  as  if  mist  or  mirage, 
right  behind  these  idols  ;  the  place  is  poetical 
But  they  seemed  to  be  having  a  disagreeable 
time  of  it,  all  overgrown  as  they  were  with 
moss,  and  even  with  the  dirty  pieces  of  paper 
stuck  by  all  sorts  of  pilgrims  as  a  sign  of  their 
call.  Once  when  I  hurried  down  from  Chu- 
zenji  and  passed  by  them,  I  caught  rain  and 
v/ind ;  alas !  those  kind  deities  were  terribly 
wet,  like  myself.  I  pitied  them ;  I  cannot 
forget  their  sad  sight  even  to-day  ;  however,  the 
Jizo  idol  under  the  rain  is  a  good  subject  of  art 

13 


Through 

the 

Torii 


There  are  few  countries  where  rain  falls  as  in 
Japan.  The  dear  idols  must  be  wet  under  the 
rain  even  now  while  you  and  I  talk  right  here." 

When  I  reached  my  hotel  and  sat  myself 
on  the  cushion,  and  after  a  while  began  to 
smoke,  my  mind  roamed  leisurely  from  the  idols 
under  the  rains  to  the  man  wet  through  by  the 
rains  of  failure ;  and  now  it  reflected  on  this 
and  that,  and  then  it  recalled  that  and  this. 
Oh,  how  can  I  forget  the  very  words  of  that 
reporter  of  one  Francisco  paper  who  mys- 
tified, startled,  and  shocked  me,  well,  by  his 
ignorance  or  wisdom  seven  years  ago  ?  I  said 
to  him  on  being  asked  why  I  returned  home 
that  I  was  going  to  hunt  after  the  Nirvana  ;  he 
looked  up  with  a  half-humorous  smile  and  said, 
"  That's  so  !  But  let  me  ask  you  with  pardon, 
are  you  not  rather  too  late  in  the  season  for 
that?" 

It  seems  that  it  is  too  late  now  even  in  Japan 
to  get  the  Nirvana,  as  that  San  Francisco 
reporter  said.  How  can  I  get  it,  the  capital- 
lettered  Nirvana,  even  at  Nikko,  when  I  could 
not  find  it  in  London  and  New  York  ?  I 
laughed  on  my  silliness  of  thought  that  I  might 


be  able,  it  place  were  changed,  to  discover  it. 
Oh,  my  soul,  I  wonder  when  it  will  wiser 
grow  ? 


Through  TOKYO 

the 

Torii 

PSYCHOLOGICALLY  speaking,  the  city  of 
Tokyo,  like  the  Japanese  civilization,  which 
is  often  unmoral,  if  not  immoral,  is  a  wanton 
growth,  not  a  true  development  from  the 
inner  force  of  impulse;  its  immensity  in  size, 
and  perhaps  in  humanity  too,  is  not  the  con- 
sciousness of  sure  development,  but  more  or  less 
in  the  nature  of  an  accidental  phenomenon.  It 
appeared  like  a  mushroom  without  any  partic- 
ular reason  ;  the  wonder  is  that  it  has  stayed, 
and  grown  bigger  and  bigger.  It  fairly  well 
represents  the  Japanese  mind  in  its  incapacity 
for  spiritual  concentration  ;  if  it  have  any  chaim 
(it  has,  in  fact,  many  and  many  charms,  often 
fantastic  and  always  bewildering)  it  should  lie 
in  its  ignoring  of  definite  purpose,  or  its  utter 
lack  of  purpose.  It  is  almost  too  free  to  be 
called  democratic ;  it  has  no  discrimination. 
(My  friend  critic,  that  unique  N.  Y.,  scorns 
Tokyo  as  the  human  beehive  of  mobbishness.) 
Many  millions  of  Japanese,  dark  in  skin,  short 
in  stature,  live  here  looking  as  if  the  increasing 
summer  clouds  had  fallen  on  the  ground,  now 

16 


parting  and  anon  gathering  again  with  a  sort  of  Tokyo 

mystery  of  Oriental  fatalism  ;  the  first  and  last 
impression  is  a  weariness  not  altogether  un- 
pleasant, ghostly  at  the  beginning  and  tanta- 
lisingly  human  afterward.  That  weariness 
originates  in  the  confusion,  physical  and  spiritual, 
to  speak  symbolically,  the  strange  mess  of  red, 
blue,  yellow,  green,  and  what  not.  (Fame  be 
eternal  of  Utamaro,  Hokusai,  and  Hiroshige, 
those  colour  magicians  of  art,  the  true  exponents 
of  Japanese  life !) 

This  Tokyo  was  at  the  first  the  town  of 
samurai  of  two  swords,  of  mind  more  bent  on 
learning  how  to  die  than  how  to  live,  proper  to 
say,  founded  by  lyeyasu  Tokugawa,  the  mighty 
prince  of  the  Tokugawa  feudalism,  four 
hundred  year  ago,  whose  want  of  artistic 
education  made  it  quite  natural  for  him  not  to 
see  the  poetical  side  of  city-building;  he 
allowed  every  whim  and  imagination  of  the 
people  to  take  their  own  free  course.  This 
neglect,  more  fortunate  than  otherwise,  produced 
a  great  variety  in  colour  and  humanity  that 
system  and  wisdom  never  could  create,  that 
were  at  once  paradoxical,  but  highly  interesting. 

'7 


Through          Jt  J§  for  ever  ^  man*s  ^^  J{  we  can  caJJ  Kyoto 
Torii  the  city  of  women  for  the  sake  of  comparison ; 

in  consequence,  it  is  apt  to  be  naked,  bizarre 
and  often  arrogant,  but  there  is  no  other  city 
like  Tokyo,  which  is  honest  and  simple.  As 
a  piece  of  the  art  the  city  is  sadly  unfinished  ; 
in  its  unfinishedness  we  feel  a  charm,  as  I 
said  before,  the  charm  of  weariness  that  rather 
breaks,  in  spite  of  itself,  an  artistic  unity.  Con- 
sciousness of  perfection  is  unknown  to  the  city ; 
while  it  is  quick  and  bright  on  the  one  hand, 
it  is,  on  the  other,  verily  lazy  and  uncivilised,  like 
the  Japanese  temperament  itself.  I  can  count, 
on  the  spot,  many  a  street  which  raises  an  apol- 
ogetic look,  as  if  they  did  not  approve  their 
own  existence  even  themselves ;  it  is  quite 
natural,  I  say,  as  it  is  the  city  as  a  whole, 
withuot  a  definite  purpose. 

I  think  that  "  New  Japan  "  (what  a  skeptic 
shallow  sound  it  has !)  has  little  to  do  with  the 
real  Japan  of  human  beauty,  because  it  was 
created  largely  by  the  advertisement,  for  which 
we  paid  the  most  exorbitant  price  to  get  the 
mere  name  of  that ;  in  short,  we  bought  it  with 
ready  cash.  Therefore  it  is  no  wonder  that  it 

18 


is  so  perfectly  strange  to  many  of  us.     I  hear  a  Tokyo 

whisper  too  often  at  some  street  corner :  "  Is 
it  really  our  Japan  ? "  I  know  that  old  true 
Japan,  every  inch  of  it,  was  the  very  handi- 
work of  the  people  in  general,  while  "  New 
Japan,"  "the  rising  country  of  first  class  in  the 
world,"  as  it  was  proudly  written  by  a  news- 
paper man,  as  I  can  imagine,  who  wears  a 
single  eyeglass  straight  from  London,  was 
created  by  a  few  hundred  men,  we  might 
say,  the  Westerners  born  in  Japan,  whose 
hopeless  ignorance  of  the  old  civilization  of 
their  old  country,  strange  to  say,  helped  them 
up  to  fill  the  highest  place  in  the  public 
estimate.  They  were  almost  reckless  to  bring 
everything  from  abroad,  good  or  bad ;  we  did 
not  mind  trying  it  under  one  condition,  that  we 
might  change  it  for  another  if  it  was  not  fitting. 
We  discovered  profitably  Shakespeare  and 
even  Ibsen  lately  ;  and  it  seems  to  me  that  a 
copy,  doubtless,  of  the  American  edition  of 
"  How  to  Build  a  City  "  fell  one  day  in  the 
hands  of  the  Mayor  of  Tokyo,  who  proclaimed 
in  the  voice  of  a  prophet  that  the  city  should  be 
rebuilt  in  the  very  fashion  nobody,  at  least  in 

19 


Through        fae  Orient,  ever  dreamed.     Figuratively  speak- 
Torii  *nS»   we  were  changing    our   kimono  of    old 

brocade,  precious  with  tradition,  for  a  plain 
sack-coat,  perhaps  made  in  Chicago.  The 
municipality  has  been  for  the  last  two  or  three 
years  spending  an  enormous  amount  of  money 
for  the  sudden  enlarging  of  the  streets,  and  the 
hasty  building  of  houses  of  brick  or  stone,  of 
white  or  red ;  but  I  wonder  why  our  Japanese 
city  should  be  one  and  the  same  with  that  of 
the  West.  And  again  I  wonder  if  it  was  her 
weakness  or  strength  that  she  accepted  the 
foreign  things  so  easily.  It  makes  me  reflect 
what  right  she  has,  however,  to  object  to  the 
foreign  invasion,  as  she  had  no  definite  purpose 
as  a  city  originally.  And  is  it  the  only  way  to 
put  the  Western  morality  in  the  old  heart  of 
the  city  ?  Can  she  ever  become  really 
civilised  ? 


THE  HOLY  HOUSES  OF  SLEEP        The  Holy 

Houses  of 
Sleep 

IT  has  become  my  habit  on  way  to  college 
once  a  week,  where  my  weakness  betrays  itself 
under  the  quite  respectable  name  of  interpreter 
of  English  poets,  ancient  or  modern,  to  invite 
my  own  soul  even  for  awhile  where  the  shadows 
of  pine-trees  thicken  along  the  path  of  breezes 
in  Shiba  Park  ;  it  makes  my  wandering  in  the 
holy  houses  of  sleep  of  the  great  feudal  princes 
the  most  natural  thing.  I  clearly  remember  how 
afraid  I  was  in  my  boyhood  days,  whenever  I 
happened  to  pass  by  them,  of  being  hailed  by 
the  dark,  undiscerning  voice  of  Death.  Oh, 
my  friends  and  philosophers  in  all  lands,  is  it  a 
matter  of  thankfulness  as  to-day  even  to  fall  in 
love  with  its  sweetness,  and  to  reflect  on  its 
golden-hearted  generosity  and  accidentally  to 
despise  Life  ?  I  say  here  at  either  the  sacred 
house  of  the  Sixth  Prince  or  that  of  the  Second 
Prince  that  one  cannot  help  loving  Death  when 
he  sees  right  before  himself  such  an  inspiring 
house  of  sleep  of  green,  red,  yellow,  of  the  gold 
and  lacquer,  of  the  colours  unmixed  and  simple, 
soaring  out  of  this  and  that  wealth  of  life,  the 


Through        colours  that  have  reached   the   final  essence, 
Torii  and  power  of  Nature.     Although  it  might  be 

a  modern  fashion  to  speak  of  symbolism,  I  flatly 
refuse  to  look  through  its  looking-glass  of  con- 
fused quality,  on  the  phoenixes,  paradise-birds, 
lotuses,  peonies,  lions,  and  ocean  waves  which 
decorate  the  inside  of  the  temple,  where  the 
years  of  incense  and  prayer  have  darkened  and 
mystified  the  general  atmosphere.  Our  old 
artists  had  a  strength  in  their  jealous  guarding 
of  beauty  for  beauty's  sake ;  they  felt  but  not 
theorised ;  therefore,  in  such  a  beauty  of  con- 
fusion as  I  see  in  these  holy  temples,  there  is 
the  most  clear  simplicity,  the  beauty  of  the  last 
judgment.  Indeed,  I  wish  to  know  if  there  is 
any  house  better  fitting  for  sleep  and  rest  than 
the  temples  of  spirit  in  my  beloved  Shiba 
Park. 

The  beauty  of  Death  is  in  its  utter  rejection 
of  profusion ;  it  is  the  desire  of  intensity  itself 
which  only  belongs  to  the  steadfastness  and 
silence  of  a  star ;  oh,  what  a  determination  it 
declares  !  It  is  perfect ;  its  epical  perfection 
arises  from  the  point  that  it  will  never  return 
towards  Life  ;  its  grandeur  is  in  the  pride  that  it 


22 


shall  never  associate  itself   with   lifes   clatter.      The  Holy 

/-M      r\       i    •         •          i    •       T     •       i  Houses  of 

Uh,  Death  is  triumph  !     It  is  the  great  aspect  Sleep 

of  Japanese  romance   of   the  righting  age    to 

make    the  moment   of   death   as   beautiful    as 

possible ;  I  can  count  a  hundred  names  of  heroes 

and  fighters  whom  we  remember  only  from  the 

account  of   their  beautiful  death,  not  of  their 

beautiful   lives,   on  whom   stories  and  dramas 

have  been  gorgeously   written.     And   it   was 

the  civilisation  of  the  Tokugawa  feudalism,  the 

age  of   peace,   to   make  us  look  upon  Death 

with    artistic    adoration    and    poetical    respect. 

We  read  so  much  in  our  Japanese  history  of 

the    powers    and    works    of    that    Tokugawa 

family,  which  lasted  with  unbred  energy  until 

only  forty  years  ago ;  oh,  where  to-day  can  the 

strong  proof  of  its  existence  be  traced  ?     Is  it 

not,    I    wonder,    only    a     "  name    written    on 

water"?     But    the    great    reverence    towards 

Death  that  it  encouraged  will  be  still  observed 

like  the  sun   or  moon   in   the  holy  temples  at 

Nikko  or   Shiba  Park,  the  creations  of  art  it 

realised  during  the  long  three  hundred  years. 

True  to  say,  art  lives  longer  than  life  and  the 

world. 

23 


Through  j  often  tnmk  now   pOor   our  Japanese  life 

might  have  been  if  we  had  not  developed,  by 
accident  or  wisdom,  this  great  reverence  towards 
Death,  without  whose  auspices  many  beautiful 
shapes  of  art,  I  am  sure,  would  never  have 
existed ;  the  stone  lantern  for  instance,  to 
mention  a  thing  particularly  near  my  mind 
when  I  loiter  alone  in  the  sacred  ground  of  the 
Second  Shogun,  in  the  wide  open  yard  perfect- 
ly covered  by  pebbles  in  the  first  entrance-gate, 
where  hundreds  of  large  stone  lanterns  stand 
most  respectfully  in  rows  ;  quite  proper  for  the 
feudal  age,  those  lone  sentinels.  When  the 
toro  or  stone  lantern  leaves  the  holy  place  of 
spirit  for  the  garden,  matter-of-fact  and 
plebeian,  it  soon  assumes  the  front  of  pure  art ; 
but  how  can  it  forget  the  place  where  it  was 
born  ?  We  at  once  read  its  religious  aloofness 
under  the  democratic  mask.  To  see  it  squat- 
ting solemn  and  sad  with  the  pine-trees  makes 
me  imagine  an  ancient  monk  in  meditation,  cross- 
legged,  not  yet  awakened  to  the  holy  under- 
standing of  truth  and  light ;  is  there  not  the 
attitude  of  a  prophet  crying  in  the  wilderness 
in  its  straight,  tall  shape  upon  the  large  moss- 
24 


carpeted    lawn  ?     I   myself  have    never    been      T  e       y 

,  ,  ,  ,  t  Houses  of 

able  to  take  it  merely  as  a  creation  or  art  since  sl 

my  tender  age  when  my  boy's  imagination  took 
its  flicker  of  light  under  the  depth  of  darkness 
to  be  a  guiding  lamp  for  my  sister's  dead  soul 
hastening  towards  Hades  in  her  little  steps;  it 
was  a  rainy  night  when  she  died  in  her  ninth 
year.  I  cannot  separate  my  memory  of  her 
from  the  stone  lantern ;  again,  I  cannot  dis- 
associate the  stone  lantern  with  the  black  night 
and  autumnal  rain  under  whose  silence  the 
lantern  sadly  burned,  indeed,  '  like  a  spirit 
eternal  and  divine. 

In  the  first  place,  whenever  I  think  of  the 
general  effect  of  the  reverence  of  Death  upon 
our  national  life,  I  deem  the  love  of  cleanliness 
the  greatest  of  it ;  when  I  say  that  it  really 
grew  in  the  Tokugawa  age,  I  have  in  my  mind 
the  thought  that  the  reverence  towards  Death 
reached  its  full  development  then.  When  the 
custom  of  keeping  the  household  shrine  came 
strictly  to  be  observed,  the  love  of  cleanliness 
soon  promulgated  itself  as  an  important  duty ; 
and  the  thought  of  sharing  the  same  roof  with 
the  spirit  or  ghost  makes  you,  as  the  next  thing, 

25 


Through        wiser,  not  to  act  foolishly  or  talk  scandalously. 

Torii  The  appreciation  of  greyness  and  silence  is 

born  from  that  reverence  of  Death  ;  as  you  live 
with  the  dead  souls  in  one  house,  Death  ceases 
to  be  fearful  and  menacing,  and  becomes 
beautiful  and  suggestive  like  the  whisper  of  a 
breeze  or  the  stir  of  incense.  Death  is  then 
more  real  than  life,  like  that  incense  or  breeze  ; 
again  so  is  silence  more  real  than  voice. 


DA1BUTSU  Daibutsu 

THE  valley,  a  snug  basin  forgotten  by  con- 
sciousness, was  filled  with  the  autumnal  sunlight 
of  gold,  which  shone  up  to  the  tremendous  face 
of  Daibutsu  (famous  holiness  at  Kamakura) 
who,  like  thought  touched  by  emotion,  appeared 
as  if  vibrating;  Nature  there  was  in  the  last 
stage  of  all  evolution,  having  her  energy  and 
strength  vaporized  into  repose.  The  trees, 
flowers  and  grasses  in  the  sacred  ground  calmed 
down,  to  speak  somewhat  hyperbolically,  into 
the  state  of  Nirvana.  The  thought  that  I  was 
a  sea-tossed  boat  even  with  all  oars  broken, 
formed  itself  then  in  my  mind ;  it  was  natural  I 
felt  at  once  that  it  was  the  only  place,  at 
least  in  Japan,  where  my  sea-wounded  heart 
would  soon  be  healed  by  the  virtue  of  my  own 
prayer,  and  by  the  air  mist-purple,  filling  the 
valley  most  voluptously.  I  cannot  forget  my 
impression  when  I  heard  there  the  evening  bell 
ring  out  and  the  voice  of  sutra-reading  from 
the  temple,  and  how  I  lost  my  human  heart 
and  pride,  becoming  a  faint  soul,  a  streak  of 
scent  or  a  wisp  of  sigh ;  I  was  a  song  itself 
27 


Through        which   grew   out  from  my   confession.     Such 
Tori:  was  my  ^rst  impression  on   finding   myself   in 

Daibutsu's  ground,  ihe  haven  of  peace  and 
heavenly  love  all  by  itself,  soon  after  I  returned 
home  from  my  long  foreign  sojourn,  that  is  quite 
many  years  ago  now  ;  but  it  seems  it  was  only 
yesterday  that  I,  like  a  thousand  waves 
hurrying  towards  the  Yuigahama  shore  of 
Kamakura,  hurried  to  Daibutsu  with  my  own 
soul  of  wave-like  song  of  prayer ;  can  our 
human  souls  ever  be  more  than  the  wave  of 
the  sea  ? 

It  was  the  next  summer  that  I  had  many 
many  more  occasions  to  lay  my  body  and  soul 
under  the  blessing  of  Daibutsu's  valley  (Oh, 
what  a  scent  that  is  the  Lord  Buddha's  !  )  as  I 
had  many  weeks  to  spend  there  at  Kamakura ; 
Summer,  the  month  of  my  love,  with  the  burn- 
ing ecstasy  that  would  soon  be  intensified  into 
the  greyness  of  Oriental  desolation.  I  like  the 
Summer  heat,  you  understand,  not  from  the 
fact  of  heat  itself,  but  from  the  reason  we  have 
to  thank  its  presence  for  the  sweetening  of  the 
shadows  of  trees,  where  I  will  build,  while 
looking  at  the  delicious  white  feet  of  passing 
28 


breeze,  my  own  kingdom  with  sighing,  to  speak  Daibutsu 
plainly,  dream  old  Kamakura  of  the  Middle 
Age,  that  is,  of  art  and  religious  faith.  To-day, 
it  is  in  truth  a  common  sort  of  country  town 
of  modem  Japan,  of  stereotyped  pattern  with 
others  ;  if  there  is  a  difference,  it  is  only  in  its 
appearing  less  individual  and  far  sadder  be- 
cause it  has  had  such  a  great  history,  when  we 
observe  that  its  general  ambition  now  points 
towards  commercialism  ;  but  it  is  during  those 
Summer  weeks  only  that  we  can  fairly  well 
connect  it  with  the  old  art  and  prayer,  let  me 
say,  with  the  true  existence  of  Daibutsu  the 
Wonder,  as  we  see  then  with  our  living  eyes 
the  thousand  pilgrims  in  white  cotton,  bamboo 
mushroom  hats  on  head  and  holy  staff  in  hand, 
and  sacred  little  bells  around  their  waists 
(what  desolate  voices  of  bells  !)  swarming  here 
mainly  to  kneel  before  Daibutsu  from  every 
corner  of  the  country  where  all  winds  come 
from ;  I  was  glad  to  see  the  whole  town 
religiously  changed  at  once.  How  often  I 
found  myself  with  those  pilgrims  muttering  the 
holy  words  in  Daibutsu's  valley  where  the 
nature,  not  alike  that  of  the  former  October  of 


Through        rest?   was  m   a]|  jts  spiritual    asceticism   with 
Torii  repentance  and  belief ;  the  gigantic  divinity  in 

bronze,  of  folded  hands  and  inclined  head  in 
heavenly  meditation,  over  whom  time  and 
change  (Summer  heat,  of  course)  have  no 
power  to  stir  its  silence,  is  self-denial  itself. 
Oh,  let  my  heart  burn  in  storm  and  confession 
like  the  hearts  of  a  thousand  cicadas  whose 
songs  almost  shake  the  valley  and  trees ;  we 
might  get  the  spiritual  ascendency  out  of  physical 
exhaustion ;  it  makes  at  least  one  step  nearer 
our  salvation.  The  autumnal  rest  or  silence 
can  only  be  gained  after  having  all  the  summer 
heart-cry ;  isn't  Daibutsu's  self-denial  the  heart- 
cry  strengthened  into  silence  ? 

There  is  in  this  statue  a  great  subtlety, 
speaking  of  it  as  a  creation  of  art,  which  might 
result,  let  me  define  it  arbitrarily,  from  a  good 
balance  of  the  masses  of  idealism  and  what  we 
generally  understand  as  realism ;  as  the  latter 
is  indeed  so  slight,  even  our  modern  imagina- 
tion whose  rush  always  proves  to  be  disturbing, 
has  enough  room  here  to  play  to  its  content. 
The  proof  that  the  said  idealism  and  realism 
melt  into  one  another  in  such  a  perfection  is 
30 


clearly  seen  in  its  external  monotony,  or, 
let  me  say,  in  its  utter  sacrifice  of  gross  effect, 
while  it,  on  the  other  hand,  has  gained  the 
inward  richness  most  magically.  To  call  it  an 
accident  is  not  quite  satisfactory,  although  I  do 
not  know  how  far  it  is  explained  by  saying 
that  it  is  the  realization  of  magic  or  power  of 
prayer  which  our  ancestors  placed  in  bronze ; 
there  is  no  denying,  I  think,  that  it  is  the 
work  of  prayer  to  a  great  measure.  Tradition 
says : 

It  was  Itano  no  Tsubone,  one  of  the  waiting 
ladies  to  Shogun  Yoritomo,  who  undertook, 
when  he  passed  away  with  the  unfulfilled  desire 
to  have  an  object  of  worship  at  Kamakura, 
his  own  capital,  similar  to  the  Daibutsu  at 
Nara,  to  collect  a  general  contribution  and 
fund,  with  the  assistance  of  the  priest  Joko ;  the 
first  image  which  was  of  wood  was  finished  in 
1 238  or  the  first  year  of  Rekinin.  She  was 
again  called  to  action,  when  in  the  autumn  of 
the  2nd  year  of  Hoji  ( 1 248)  the  image,  also 
the  chapel,  was  overthrown  by  a  storm,  this 
time  assisted  by  the  Shogun  Prince  Munetaka, 
she  successfully  restored  the  image  in  bronze. 

31 


Through        The  artjst  who  executed  it  was  Goyemon  Ono 
Torii  of  Yanamura  of  Kadzusa  province. 

Putting  aside  the  question  who  were  Ono 
and  Itano  no  Tsubone,  the  significant  point  is 
that  it  was  created  by  a  thousand  people 
whose  religious  longing  and  hope  were  fulfilled 
in  this  Daibutsu.  It  is  not  our  imagination 
alone  to  think  that  the  statue  always  lives  as  it 
is  the  real  force  of  prayer ;  when  we  see  it, 
we  build  the  most  musical  relation  one  with 
another  at  once,  because  we  forget  ourselves  in 
one  soul  and  body,  we  might  say,  in  one  sound 
and  one  colour,  perfectly  wedded  with  it. 
After  all,  it  is  nothing  but  our  own  emotion 
and  yearning  personified. 

I  believe  that  it  might  not  have  been  so 
great  an  art  as  it  is,  if  it  had  been  made  in 
our  day,  mainly  because  it  would  express  too 
delicate  details  ;  and  the  temple  light  from  the 
opening  of  the  doors,  when  it  used  to  stand 
within,  must  have  often  played  with  it  unjustly. 
But  it  became  a  great  art  when  the  storm  and 
tidal  waves  destroyed  the  temple  and  washed 
the  statue  in  1 355  and  again  in  1 526,  and 
left  it  without  cover  ever  since,  with  the  rus- 

32 


tling  trees  behind,  the  light  and  winds  crawling  Daibutsu 
up  and  down,  against  whose  undecidedness  its 
eternal  silence  would  be  doubly  forcible.  Is 
it  not  that  our  human  souls  often  grow  beauti- 
ful under  the  baptism  of  misfortune  and  grief  ? 
So  Nature  once  unkind  to  the  statue  proves  to 
be  a  blessing  to-day  ;  it  looms  with  far  greater 
divinity  out  of  the  rain,  wind,  lights  of  sun  and 
moon,  whose  subtle  contribution  it  fully 
acknowledges.  Where  are  the  foolish  people 
who  wish  to  build  the  temple  again  to  put  the 
image  in  ? 


33 


Through  SPRING   IN   JAPAN 

the 
Torii 

IT  is  the  Japanese  imagination  to  make  the 
world-large  laughter  of  flowers  out  of  the 
December  snow  ;  it  is  our  fire  of  imagination 
that  we  build  a  land  of  Spring  fairies  already 
in  Winter's  heart  of  frost,  and  of  wind  •  too 
solemn  even  for  speech.  We  flatly  object 
to  recognise  the  existence  of  Winter ;  we  are 
happy  to  think  that  we  have  only  three  seasons 
in  the  year.  I  always  think  the  Japanese  mind 
is  most  wonderful  where  it  leaves  behind  the 
Chinese  thought,  finite,  hard,  like  the  Greek 
thought,  whose  consciousness  to  ethics  ever 
thought  a  Vision  frivolous  ;  and  we  thank  the 
Buddhism  which  encouraged  our  appreciation 
of  Nature  as  having  a  big  share  of  moral  life. 
We  read  in  our  literature  the  record  of  a  long 
fight  of  thosey  two  thoughts,  Chinese  and 
Japanese.  It  is  originally  a  Chinese  thought  to 
praise  and  moralise  over  the  plum-blossom ; 
and  the  nightingale,  speaking  generally,  is  more 
a  Chinese  bird,  or,  we  might  say,  a  Greek 
bird,  like  Keats'  nightingale,  than  a  Japanese 
bird ;  but  the  nightingale,  also  the  plum- 

34 


blossom,  became  quite  Japanese  things  when  Spring  m 
we  found  in  them  a  most  feverish  outburst  of 
our  desire  towards  Spring.  We  hardly  think  of 
truth  and  beauty  as  the  ending  words  for  a 
song  on  the  nightingale  as  in  Keats'  ode  ;  our 
mind  goes  straight  to  the  irresistible  impulse  of 
the  bird  in  leaving  the  deeper  hills  to  hunt  after 
Spring  and  sunlight.  It  is  a  great  moment 
among  many  others  when  we  show  we  are 
much  related  with  the  Celtic  temperament; 
there  is  nothing  like  our  Spring  thought,  often 
turbulent,  ever  so  passionate,  that  we  express 
most  forcibly  one  of  the  clear  national  charac- 
teristics. 

Outside  the  sky  is  ashen  and  dumb,  as  it  is 
usually  at  the  end  of  December ;  the  maple- 
leaves  sang  a  month  ago  their  last  farewell  of 
glory  written  in  blood.  (What  a  patience  and 
strength  they  saved  only  to  reach  that  tragic 
end  !)  Within  my  room  the  Spring  air  already 
floods.  The  Chinese  daffodils,  aged  but 
happy,  bloom  on  the  tokonoma,  the  holy  dais, 
where  Spring  always  begins  first  to  smile  ;  a 
most  appropriate  picture  is  hanged  on  its  wall, 
ready  to  greet  the  approach  of  the  New  Year 

35 


Through        jn  a   gOrgeous   attire  of  old  fashion.     The  fire 
Torii  burns  in  the  hibachi,  or  fire-box,    whispering  a 

far-off  forest  story  and  the  rustic  humanity 
which  is  the  best.  What  a  country-like  love 
in  the  charcoal  fire  !  A  while  ago  my  servant 
boy  returned  home  from  the  market  where  he 
bought  the  proper  decoration  for  New  Year's 
Day,  made  of  straw,  sea-weed,  lobster  (it  is  a 
Japanese  allegory  to  have  a  humorous  side,  as, 
for  instance,  with  this  lobster,  which  represents 
agelessness  in  its  very  old  shape  of  crooked 
back)  ;  I  told  him  that  a  big  pair  of  pine  trees 
should  be  put  up  at  the  entrance  of  my  house 
to  create  the  house  of  evergreen  Eternity.  I 
already  hear  outside  the  merry  music  of  lion- 
dancers,  who  make  havoc  among  the  children, 
whose  suspicious  eyes  wish  to  know  where 
Happy  New  Year  ever  comes.  We  will  soon 
see  what  a  great  part  a  fan  plays  in  our 
Japanese  life,  which  will  be  carried  by  each 
person  going  round  to  scatter  good  wishes 
among  the  people  known  or  unknown. 

I  will  stay   within  the  shut  doors,  or  shojis, 
live  in  the  Spring  air  of  my  creation  after  much 
cost,  and  wait  for  the  outside  Nature  to  burst 
36 


out  in  jollity ;   I  know  that  then  my  moods  will       Spring  m 

never  be  disturbed  even  when  the  doors  of  my 

house    swing    open,   and    the  air   within    and 

without    communicate    with    one    another    on 

equal  terms.     I  shall  see  the  low  sky  with  the 

still    lower    clouds    of    cherry-blossoms    by    a 

stream    (what  a   picture  to   please   the   Tosa 

school  of  artists !),  and  again  the  cherry-blossom 

with  lanterns  and  jolly  people  in  dance,  which 

would  be  a  subject  for  a  Hokusai  or  Hiroshige. 

When  a  poet  sings  Spring  to  frighten  from  him 

the  Invisible  or  Unseen,  it  is  from  his  desire  to 

make  the  affair  sudden  and  strange,  to  make  a 

mysterious   world  with  laughter  and  tears  arm 

in  arm. 

My  Spring  thought,  which  started  more 
objectively,  slowly  entered  in  subjective  appre- 
ciation, and  my  psychical  quality  of  mind  is 
strangely  evolving  in  April,  when  I  see  not 
each  shape  of  Spring,  but  the  one  big  Vision 
or  Imagination  of  all  Spring  now  appearing, 
now  disappearing,  as  one  big  mist,  into  whose 
seen  or  unknown  breath  my  own  existence  will 
be  lost ;  by  losing  myself  I  know  I  shall  get  a 
greatest  joy  of  life.  My  desire  will  soon  be 

37 


Through        exhausted  when  it  is  filled.     And  I  will  rest  in 

the 

Torii  reverie. 

The  season,  too.  will  rest  in  rain  before 
getting  another  pang  of  force.  Nature,  who 
began  as  strong  and  objective  as  a  Chinese  art, 
and  then  turned  as  voluptuous  and  quite  real 
as  the  Shijo  art,  more  as  our  beloved  Ukiyoye 
art,  is  now  becoming  the  art  of  Korin  design 
in  the  season  of  iris  and  wistaria,  great  Korin's 
favourite  subjects.  The  Japanese  nature  of 
May  is  most  decorative. 


THE  WILLOW-TREE  WOMAN  The 

Willow- 
Tree 

THE  incense,  an  old  vibration  of  the  Japanese  Woman 
heart,  quite  peculiar,  naturally  fastidious,  ges- 
ticulated, while  stealing  up  from  a  two-horned 
dragon's  mouth,  for  my  friend  (who  returned 
home  from  America  by  the  last  steamer)  to 
stop  his  talk  on  automobiles  and  sky-scrapers. 
It  was  only  a  little  while  since  the  new  moon, 
looking  so  attractive  after  a  shower-bath  of  rain, 
had  left  the  pine  branches  of  my  garden.  I 
begged  my  friend  to  change  his  Western  sack- 
coat  for  one  of  my  yukatas,  the  cotton  summer 
dress  with  somewhat  demonstrative  design 
(thank  heaven,  it  is  in  the  summer  time  all  free, 
when  we  are  allowed  to  act  even  fantastically), 
as  it  was,  I  told  him  informally,  out  of  place  in 
my  Japanese  house;  I  confess  that  the  poetical 
balance  of  my  mind  has  grown  to  be  easily 
ruined  by  a  single  harsh  note  of  the  too  real 
West.  When  I,  with  my  friend  new-made  m 
Japanese  robe,  most  comfortably  stretched  my 
body  upon  the  mats,  I  felt  the  night  lovely,  the 
dusk  so  blessed ;  my  friend  said  he  wished,  if 
possible,  to  cry  heartily  while  listening  to  some 

39 


Through        o\£  Japanese  songs   of  tragedy  whose  pain  he 
Torii  kad  almost  forgotten.     The  words   reminded 

me  at  once  that  Madam  Kosei,  the  well-known 
singer  of  gidayu  or  lyrical  drama,  was  appear- 
ing in  some  entertainment-house  close  by;  with 
much  glee  he  received  my  suggestion  to  take 
him  there.  When  we  left  the  house  the  moon 
was  seen  nowhere. 

"  Dzden,  den,  den " — the  sound  of  the 
three-stringed  samlsen  trying  for  the  right  note 
was  already  heard  when  we  sat  ourselves  down 
in  the  hall,  where  my  artistic  mind  began  soon 
to  revolt  against  the  electric-light,  which  only 
serves  to  diffuse  the  music  deep  or  low,  the 
song  tragic  or  simple ;  I  thought  if  we  only 
could  hear  them  in  a  small  room,  perhaps  of 
eight  mats,  with  candles  lighted,  where  the 
voice  reaches  the  ecstasy  when  it  suffocates  ! 
The  husky  cough,  quite  natural  for  the  pro- 
fessional singer  who  has  forced  her  voice  too 
severely,  made  us  understand  that  we  were 
going  to  hear  Kosei  in  the  tragic  death  of  O 
Ryu,  that  poor  willow-tree  woman  who  grew 
under  the  blessing  of  dews  and  suns. 

The  audience  hushed  like  water  when  the 


singer's  voice  rose  :  '  The  leaves  fall,  the  tree 
cracks,  the  axe  flashes.  .  .  ."  O  Ryu,  the 
willow-tree  woman,  shivers,  trembles  in  pain  as 
her  last  days  are  reached  ;  she  cries  over  her 
sleeping  child,  Midori,  whom  she  got  by 
Heitaro,  her  husband,  and  she  says:  "The 
child  will  grow  even  without  the  mother's  milk. 
If  he  should  become  great  and  wise  and  live 
up  to  his  father's  reputation  with  arrow  and 
bow !  Oh,  must  his  poor  mother  go  away  ? 
The  voice,  sad  voice,  calls  me  back  to  the 
tree.  Oh,  voice  calling  me  back. 

Once  she  had  no  human  form,  but  was  only 
the  willow-tree  on  whose  high  branch  Suye- 
taka's  hawk  alighted  when  he  was  hunting, 
which  was  almost  doomed,  then,  to  be  cut 
down,  as  he  saw  no  other  way  to  get  the 
hawk ;  it  was  Heitaro,  the  clever  archer,  who 
shot  the  branches  to  pieces  and  rescued  the 
bird,  of  course,  and  also  saved  the  tree  from  its 
ruin.  The  inhuman  tree  grew  human  at  once 
in  feeling  the  sense  of  gratitude  towards  Heitaro, 
whom  she  decided  to  serve  in  the  role  of 
woman :  the  days,  the  years  that  passed 
made  her  forget  that  she  was  tree ;  her  love 


The 

Willow  - 

Tree 

Woman 


Through        for    j^    tempOrarv    husband    was    sealed    in 

the  iv/i-j    • 

Torii  Midon. 

The  scene  changes  from  night  to  day.  The 
fallen  willow-tree  never  moves  when .  people 
try  to  pull  it  to  its  destination.  Who  in  the 
world  could  know  its  secret  heart  ?  Who 
could  hear  its  inner  voice,  except  Heitaro  and 
Midori  ?  When  they  hasten  to  the  place,  the 
tree,  not  wholly  dead,  seems  to  stir  as  if  in  joy ; 
why  should  it  not,  as  its  husband  and  child 
have  come  to  bid  farewell  at  the  moment  it  is 
taken  over  the  dark  and  death  ?  The  tree 
moves  when  Midori  and  Heitaro  lead  the 
people  in  singing,  because  they  pull  with  the 
strength  of  humanity  and  love. 

We,  I  and  my  friend,  were  silent  when  we 
returned  home  from  the  entertainment-hall ;  I 
fancied  that  he  was  impressed  as  much  as  I 
was.  We  all  take  the  same  step  in  the  matter 
of  humanity  without  any  discussion.  I  left  my 
friend  in  his  room,  I  myself  retiring  into  the 
mosquito-net  of  my  compartment,  whence  I 
could  see  the  paper  lantern  still  burning  in  the 
darkness,  swinging  as  if  a  lost  spirit  of  the 
willow-tree,  perhaps,  of  my  garden ;  what 


would  it  speak  to  me?  I  could  not  sleep  for 
some  long  while,  being  absorbed  in  my  own 
reflection. 

It  was  Buddhism  which  encouraged  and 
endorsed  the  superstition,  even  with  added 
reasonings  ;  it  would  only  need  a  little  light  of 
circumstances  to  make  it  shine  like  a  pearl 
which  quickens  itself,  to  speak  figuratively, 
with  the  golden  faith  within.  The  humanising 
of  a  tree,  whether  it  be  a  willow  or  a  pine,  has 
its  origin  in  the  general  Nature-worship  which 
is  as  old  as  the  sun  and  the  moon  ;  I  think  it  is 
one  of  the  prides  we  can  fairly  well  claim  that 
we  never  laugh,  jeer  at,  or  wound  Nature,  and 
never  invade  her  domain  with  cold  hearts  ;  it 
is,  in  truth,  the  Western  intellect  that  has  taught 
us  of  the  scheme  and  secret  how  to  force  the 
battle  against  Nature.  Must  we  thank  the 
West  for  our  disillusionment?  It  was  the 
romance  of  trees — like  that  of  the  willow,  for 
instance — that  saved  at  least  old  Japan  from 
natural  ruin;  how  such  an  allegorical  story 
impressed  our  Japanese  mind  ! 

I  used  to  hear,  when  I  was  young,  of  the 
lovely  maiden  ever  so  young  and  sad,  who 

43 


The 

Willow- 
Tree 
Woman 


Through        disappeared,  like  a  star  into  the  morning  mist, 
Torii  into  the  cherry-tree,  when  the  evening  bell  sent 

the  sun  down  across  the  West,  and  the  flower- 
petals  fell  fast  to  the  ground  ;  I  began  to  dream 
of  the  luminous  moment  of  meeting  with  that 
lady  of  apparition,  when  my  boyhood  grew  to 
ripen  into  youth,  and  of  the  ecstasy  of  shock 
and  deathless  joy  in  her  single  touch.  I  con- 
fess I  was  ever  so  haunted  by  the  woman  of 
riie  cherry-tree.  The  pain  I  earned  from 
realising  the  fact  that  I  should  never  get  her, 
although  she  was  within  my  hand's  graps, 
became  healed  only  lately. 

Where  I  lost  my  idealism  I  got  humanity  ; 
to-day,  when  my  days  of  youth  have  begun  to 
fade  into  the  colour  of  grey,  I  am  married,  and 
have  chileren  crawling  by  my  side.  The  story 
of  the  willow-tree  appeals  to  my  mind  more 
intensely  than  the  lady  of  the  cherry-blossom. 
I  think  that  the  worship  of  the  tree  belongs  to 
an  age  ten  years  later  than  the  flower  adoration. 


44 


THE  EAST :  THE  WEST  The  Eas< : 

The  West 

I  LOOKED  aside  through  the  window  where  the 
young-green  willow  branches,  to  use  a  Japanese 
phrase,  almost  smoked  in  uneasiness  like  the 
love-touched  heart  of  a  girl,  when  our  talk 
(nothing  better  than  an  informal  talk  on  art 
and  poetry  to  fill  an  hour  of  an  April  afternoon 
already  grown  gold  and  slow)  flagged ;  we 
three  found  a  haven  from  the  city's  noise  by  a 
little  table  at  the  restaurant  off  Ginza,  the 
Boulevard  of  Tokyo.  My  friend-composer 
finished  his  cup  of  tea,  and  took  up  again  his 
talk  where  he  had  left  off. 

"  Once  I  made  the  late  Mr.  K.,  the  well- 
recognised  Japanese  musician  connected  with 
the  Kabukiza  Theatre,  listen  to  the  tune  of 
Payne's  '  Home,  Sweet  Home.'  What  did 
he  say,  do  you  suppose,  when  it  was  over  ? 
You  are  mistaken  to  think  his  musical  mind 
rightly  responded  when  he  appeared  fallen  in 
meditation  ;  he  said  to  my  amazement :  '  That 
was  very  grand.*  And  he  said  further  that  he 
would  like  to  play  it,  for  instance,  at  the  scene 
first  or  last,  where  many  samurais  in  formal 

45 


Through  dress,  sitting  in  perfect  order,  were  ready  to 
speak  their  greeting  of  New  Year's  Day  to 
their  lord  just  stepped  out  from  within  ;  indeed, 
that  was  what  I  never  expected  to  hear. 
However,  I  was  amused  to  think  it  was  another 
instance  to  prove  how  differently  in  music  the 
Japanese  mind,  at  least,  the  old  Japanese  mind, 
is  pleased  to  work  from  the  West ;  you  can 
imagine  how  mystified  he  looked  when  I  told 
him  about  the  nature  of  tune  I  had  played 
him." 

This  delightful  talker  looked  upon  me  as  if 
he  wanted  my  word  to  endorsement ;  my  mind 
grew  at  once  alive,  being  given  an  interesting 
subject  even  for  serious  consideration  ;  and  I 
said: 

"  I  had  my  own  experiences  not  only  once 
when  I  found  myself  in  exactly  the  same 
situation  as  that  Mr.  K.;  it  was  in  the  earlier 
days  of  my  American  life,  when  my  exotic 
Japanese  mind  was  still  far  from  being  ac- 
climatised in  the  West.  Once  in  New  York, 
my  American  friend  took  me  one  evening  to  a 
certain  Webber  and  Field  to  see  the  so-called 
artists  in  the  '  cake-walk  * — whether  they  were 
46 


negroes   or  whites   I  hardly  remember  now —      The  East. 
,  .  ,  The  West 

that  fantastic  way  or  step  on  the  stage  most 

popular  in  those  days.  I  knew  that  I  could 
not  help  laughing  when  I  saw  the  players  with 
stove-pipe  hat  red  or  blue,  with  ribboned  huge 
cane  in  hand,  leaping  across  the  stage  like 
vagarious  spirits  who  had  dethroned  themselves 
of  their  own  free  will ;  but  once  when  I  closed 
my  eyes  to  give  my  sense  of  hearing  full  play, 
what  do  you  suppose  ?  I  confess  that  my  tears 
strangely  fell  without  being  called.  My  friend 
said  sarcastically :  '  Is  it  a  Japanese  way  to 
cry  when  you  are  jolly  ?  *  When  he  meant 
that  we  Japanese  often  act  in  the  reverse,  and 
generally  speaking,  that  we  are  paradoxical 
people  by  nature,  I  think  that  somehow  he  hit 
the  right  mark ;  but  1  dismissed  the  whole  thing 
without  answering  him,  because  it  was  a  ques- 
tion too  complicated  to  explain  in  one  breath. 
And  I  am  sure  that  he  would  have  asked  me 
why,  even  if  I  had  told  him  simple  that  the 
music  merry  to  him  sounded  to  me  sadly." 

"  Dr.  C.,  you  know,  the  German  professor 
at  the  Musical  College,"  my  friend-composer 
interrupted  me,  as,  doubtless,  he  wished  to  say 

47 


Through 

the 

Torii 


something  before  he  forgot  it,  "  most  savagely 
denies  even  to-day  after  twenty  years'  residence 
here,  our  having  any  harmony  in  music  ;  but 
the  fact  is  that  our  Japanese  mind  is  most 
deliciously,  tenderly,  sadly  moved  where  the 
Western  mind  finds  it  most  unsatisfactory. 
Listen  to  a  samisen  music  (which  is  said  in 
the  West  to  be  nothing  more  than  a  noise  wild 
or  primitive  at  the  best)  in  a  little  lyrical  tune, 
for  instance,  with  the  song  which  you  (Yone 
Noguchi)  translated : 

His  haori 
She  hid, 
His  sleeves 
She  held. 

•  Must  you  go,  my  lord,' 
Says  she. 

From  the  lattice  window 

She  slid 

The  shoji  slight, 

And  she  cries : 

*  Don't  you  see  the  snow  ?  ' 

"  Our  Japanese  mind,  I  believe,  through  the 
hereditary  sense   of  hearing  which  is  suddenly 
awakened  by  the  shrill  of  a  ghost  in  tune  of 
43 


this  samisen,  the  three-stringed  instrument,   not      T1«East: 
.,  ,  ,  .  ....  The  West 

wild  to   us,  but  suggestive,  not   primitive   but 

quite  complex,  will  soon  become  impassioned 
into  imagination  ;  I  dare  say  that  we  shall  feel 
even  a  physical  pain  from  love  that  the  tune 
inspires,  the  love  intensified  into  a  feeling  of 
sensuality.  It  is  at  such  a  moment  when  we 
forget  the  world  and  life,  and  pray  to  enshrine 
ourselves  in  love ;  why  is  it  the  samisen,  does 
make  us  feel  so,  while  having  no  power  at  all 
to  command  the  foreign  mind  ?  " 

"  Not  only  in  our  sense  of  hearing  " — I 
again  resumed  the  chance  to  speak — "  the 
other  senses,  whether  they  be  five  or  ten,  also 
work  quite  differently  from  those  of  the 
Westerners  ;  and  I  cannot  forget  one  instance 
to  make  me  think  that  the  American  sense  of 
seeing  is  a  thing  of  a  different  order ;  that  was 
the  case  of  Sada  Yacco  and  her  company  when 
they  presented  to  the  San  Francisco  audience, 
well,  long  ago,  the  sad  scene  of  the  farewell 
of  Kusuoki  and  his  little  son.  We  thought  it 
most  strange  when  the  saddest  part  to  us 
Japanese  made  almost  no  impression  on  the 
American  mind ;  of  course,  their  ignorance  of 

49 


Through        fae  Japanese  language  counted  a  great  deal ;  but 

Torii  when  the  sad  facial  expression  of  the  Japanese 

players  was  taken  as  that  of  violence  or  anger, 

we    thought    that    the    matter    was   altogether 

hopeless." 

"  Does  not  such  misunderstanding  of  the 
East  with  the  West  or  the  West  with  the 
East,"  ventured  my  other  friend  at  the  table, 
"  exist  also  in  literature  and  poetry  ?  " 

"  I  myself  experienced  as  a  writer  in  English 
that  my  own  meaning  or  imagination  was  often 
wrongly  taken  ;  I  can  say  at  least  that  I  found 
frequently  that  they  were  not  fully  understood  ; 
although  it  might  be  true,  as  a  certain  English 
critic  commented  on  me  the  other  day  with  his 
learned  authority  that  I  relied  too  much  upon 
the  words,  that  is  to  say,  that  I  attempted  to 
make  them  express  too  many  colours  and  mean- 
ings. I  dare  say  (is  it  my  Oriental  pride?)  that 
the  Western  minds  are  not  yet  wide  open  to 
accept  our  Japanese  imagination  and  thoughts 
as  they  are.  It  is  a  short  cut,  I  have  often 
thought,  to  look  in  a  book  of  English  transla- 
tions from  the  Japanese,  when  we  wart  to 
know  the  exact  weakness  of  the  English 
50 


language  and  literary  mind.     Last  night,  before      Tbe  East : 

i  ill  11  r    r*      i-  i         'f 

1  went  to  bed,  1  opened  the  pages  or  hnglish 
translation  of  our  hokkus,  wherein  the  following 
piece  was  declared  to  be  the  most  delicate : — 

Thought  I,  the  fallen  flowers 

Are  returning  to  their  branch ; 
But  lo !  they  are  butterflies. 

While  I  do  not  say  that  that  is  particularly 
poor,  I  never  thought  before,  like  many  another 
Japanese  I  am  sure,  it  was  so  good  as  a 
Japanese  poem  ;  if  it  means  anything,  it  is  the 
writer's  ingenuity  perhaps  in  finding  a  simile ; 
but  I  wonder  where  is  its  poetical  charm  when 
it  is  expressed  thus  definitely.  Definiteness  is 
one  of  the  English  traits,  I  believe ;  and  again, 
it  is  the  strength  of  the  English  language  and 
letters,  but  it  is  strange  enough  that  it  turns  at 
once  to  weakness  when  applied  to  our  Japanese 
thoughts  and  fancies  of  indefmiteness.  To  call 
the  Japanese  language  ungrammatical,  the 
Japanese  mind  vague,  does  no  justice  to  them ; 
their  beauty  is  in  their  soaring  out  of  the  state 
of  definiteness.  Sadness  in  English  is  quite 
another  word  from  joy  or  beauty ;  it  is  very 
5* 


Through        seldom  that  it  expresses  the   other ;   but   more 

the  £ 

Torii  often  in  our  Japanese  poetry  they  are  the  same 

thing ;  but  with  a  different  shade.  '  Sadness  in 
beauty  or  joy'  is  a  phrase  created  comparatively 
recently  in  the  West ;  even  when  sadness  is 
used  with'  the  other  in  one  breath,  it  is  not 
from  our  Japanese  understanding ;  for  us 
Japanese,  the  words  never  exist  apart  from 
our  colour  and  meaning.  Not  only  in  langauge 
but  also  in  real  life's  action,  is  it  so  ;  it  was  the 
art  of  poetry  of  Monzaemon  Chikamatsu,  the 
great  Japanese  dramatist,  that  he  made  the 
cases  of  double  tragedy  of  two  unfortunate 
lovers  (this  most  favourite  subject)  most  beau- 
tiful and  joyous ;  for  them  it  was  a  joy  and 
beauty  to  go  to  death  through  love.  We  have 
a  phrase :  '  We  cry  with  our  eyes,  and  smile 
in  heart.'  As  we  have  no  right  expresion,  let 
us  admit  for  a  little  while  the  phrase  '  the 
paradoxical  Japanese  ' ;  such  a  main  trait  of  the 
Japanese  makes  it  difficult  for  the  Western 
mind  to  understand  us  ;  and  again  it  is  why 
our  poetry  is  a  sealed  book  in  the  West." 


HIBACHI  Hibachi 

MY  antipathy  to  the  Western  stove,  even  to 
the  old-fashioned  English  fireplace,  may  arise 
from  its  looking  too  clearly  conscious  of  its 
own  worth,  ever  so  proudly  assuming  the  first 
place  in  a  room  (what  an  egoist,  indeed, 
looking  as  if  it  felt  all  the  responsibility  of  the 
universe).  •  Then  I  reflect  on  a  hibachi  or 
Japanese  wooden  fire-box,  whose  single-minded 
humbleness  is  the  creation  of  no  other  country 
but  Japan.  It  makes  its  own  lifework  to 
follow  gracefully  wherever  you  go  in  the  house 
as  a  heaven-born  servant,  serving  most 
beautifully  in  its  small  capacity  ;  its  loyalty  is 
almost  a  slavery  when  it  creeps  even  into  a 
quilt  to  warm  your  feet  at  night.  What  a 
dear  little  thing  of  the  world  it  is  !  I  have 
some  reasons  to  hug  it  sentimentally,  because 
it  sweetly  makes  me  dream  on  this  and  that, 
with  many  precious  things  which  I  must  have 
lost  long  before  if  it  had  not  kept  them  in  a 
drawer  for  me.  Isn't  the  Japanese  fire-box 
foxy  to  have  a  secret  side-pocket  ?  Why,  you 
must  not  take  that  out ;  that's  merely  a  girl's 

«•  53 


Through        hajr      J  would  not  te]l  you  its  history  for  the 
Torii  world.     (I   often   smile  to   myself,   thinking   a 

little  secret  is  rather  cosy.)  It  is  a  charm 
which  my  old  mother  sent  me  quite  long  ago, 
when  I  was  washing  breakfast  dishes  from 
which  drivers  or  milkmen  had  eaten,  in  the 
cellar  of  a  country  hotel  in  California,  and  I 
carried  it  even  to  London  afterwards,  as  I  was 
afraid  to  call  at  Carlyle's  House  alone.  His 
hard  face  always  terrified  me.  This  is  my 
clumsy  copying  of  a  page  from  dear  Blake's 
fat  book  kept  at  the  British  Museum ;  you 
shouldn't  mistake  it  for  a  sample  of  child's  art. 
I  always  think  it  is  only  Blake  among  the 
other  thousand  English  poets  and  writers  whom 
I  can  associate  with  our  hibachi,  whose  fairy- 
like  flame  would  be  his  poetical  aspiration. 
Certainly  he  would  have  been  pleased  with  it. 
Isn't  the  intensiveness  of  burning  charcoal  the 
intensiveness  of  his  work  ?  There  should  be 
a  close  relation  between  the  modern  writers  in 
the  West  and  the  stove  or  fireplace,  without 
whose  help  their  sustaining  work  would  not  be 
half  well  done.  How  could  Ibsen  and  Shaw 
become  so  thoroughly  egoistic  if  they  had  not 

54 


been  comfortable  by  the  side  of  a  glorious  fire  ?         Hibachi 

And  is  not  individualism  a  product  of  Western 

wealth,  spiritual  and  unspiritual  ?     It  seems  to 

me  that  the  egoism  of  Ibsen,  Shaw  and  many 

others  is  accidental,  being  a  freak  of  a  situation 

in  which   they  found  themselves  ;  they  might 

be  a  different  sort  of  writers  if  they  had  only  a 

little  fire-box   to   make   them    look    happy    in 

winter,    as    in    Japan.       While    wealth    is    a 

Western  weakness,  poverty  or  want  of  comfort 

is  the  keynote  of  our  Japanese  civilisation,  if 

we  have  any.     It  is  our  strength  to  let  artistic 

appreciation  make  a  balance  in  all  the  phases 

of  Japanese  life ;  art  is  the  necessity  with  us, 

though  it  may  be  a  luxury  in  the  West. 

Japan,  at  least  old  Japan,  succeeded  in 
teaching  to  everything,  human  or  unhuman,  a 
proper  amount  of  etiquette,  the  first  principle  of 
which  is  to  understand  your  own  place ;  the 
manner  which  the  little  Japanese  fire-box  is 
pleased  to  express  is  most  admirable,  It  would 
not  dare  to  step  up  on  to  a  tokonoma  or  raised 
place  of  art  in  the  drawing-room,  or  even 
attempt  to  approach  it  too  closely ;  I  can 
imagine  a  gentle  talk  of  Japanese  women  in 


55 


Through        fae  circUmspect  burning  of  its  charcoals  under 
Torii  *^e  ashes   silken-soft  and   grey.     This   is   the 

Imperial  Kingdom,  where  the  spirit  of  class 
distinction  reigns  over  even  the  hibachis  ;  there 
are  several  kinds  of  them,  aristocratic  or 
plebeian.  I  always  feel  a  pity  for  the  fire-box 
called  Nagahibachi,  or  long  fire-box,  which  is 
ruled  out  from  the  drawing-room  only  from 
the  fault  of  being  too  large.  Bigness  here  is 
often  regarded  as  inartistic.  We  are  pleased 
to  admire  a  dwarfed  tree  on  the  holy  place  of 
the  tokonoma. 

However,  this  Nagahibachi,  exiled  to  the 
sitting-room,  where  the  lady  of  the  house 
takes  her  queen's  seat,  would  be  one's  sweetest 
memory ;  my  reminiscence  of  my  childhood 
days,  perhaps  like  any  other  man's,  always 
begins  with  it.  I  cannot  forget  the  patient 
look  of  dear  mother,  who  customarily  sat  by 
it ;  I  often  thought  there  was  no  greater 
confidante  for  her  than  that  fire-box,  one  fool 
by  two  feet,  who  laughed  and  again  cried  with 
her  in  each  change  of  her  moods.  Although 
every  hibachi  is  feminine,  that  Nagahibachi  is 
particularly  so,  with  its  own  special  tact  of 

56 


making  one  fee!  at  home  at  once,  comfortable 
and  reflective  like  a  wise  woman.  It  was  there 
that  my  mother  often  told  me  a  story  of  Taro 
Urashima,  who  happened  to  marry  the  most 
beautiful  lady  under  the  depth  of  the  seas,  and 
set  me  on  a  sweet  dreaming  ;  again,  it  was 
there  that  she  cried  in  denying  my  great  desire 
to  buy  a  Webster's  dictionary,  saying  that 
poverty  was  inconvenient  when  I  told  her  it 
was  necessary  for  my  learning  the  English 
language.  My  family,  though  it  was  not 
particularly  poor,  could  not  afford  to  spend 
much  money  for  a  little  boy,  as  I  was  then ; 
and  what  did  I  wish  to  make  out  from  Webster 
when  I  had  hardly  finished  my  first  Reader 
yet  ?  I  was  quite  an  ambitious  boy  already,  I 
think.  How  I  wish  to  return  again  to  my 
youngest  days,  and  crawl  into  her  sitting-room, 
a  four  mat  and  a  half  affair,  and  feel  her  tender 
breath  as  a  real  child  in  that  safest  citadel  of 
her  own  creation,  which  would  rise  or  fall  with 
the  long  fire-box.  Her  own  kingdom  was 
small  indeed.  But  is  there  any  sweeter 
kingdom  than  that  ? 


57 


Through       THE  DECLINE  OF  THE  JAPANESE 
*0erii  TASTE  OF  TONGUE 

MY  mind  which,  as  she  felt  more  natural,  even 
sublime  in  the  greyness  of  silence  and  general 
passivity  of  Winter,  experienced  a  sudden 
disturbance  in  the  tempest-like  falling  of  the 
cherry-blossoms  of  April,  and  wondered  like 
Ki  no  Tomonori  in  his  famous  uta  poem  : 

M  'Tis  the  Spring  day 

With  lovely  far-away  light ! — 
Why  must  the  flowers  fall 
With  heart  unquiet  ?  " 

now  seems  to  be  returning  most  gladly  to  her 
original  state  of  serenity,  to  resume  the  world- 
old  dream  at  the  place  she  left  off  some  little 
while  ago,  now  in  this  month  of  May,  my  best- 
beloved  season  as  some  old  hokku  poet 
well-said : 

"  What  to  see  ?     Why,  green  leaves, 
There's  mountain  cuckoos, — 
And  then — new  bonitos." 

I  thank  God  (whoever  he  be),  as  thanked  f 

him  in  many  previous  Mays,  for  the  fact  that, 

58 


without  being  troubled  with  any  restlessness 
of  mind,  but  with  all  Browning's  content  in  his 
little  song,  I  can  face,  as  a  man  should,  Nature 
who  has  changed  her  red  dress  of  Spring  for 
this  greenness  of  early  Summer,  and  do  thrice 
exclaim,  "  Oh,  green  life,"  as  Fiona  McLeod 
exclaimed,  although  I  may  mean  that  quite 
differently ;  if  I  thank  God  for  the  trees  as  I 
do,  it  is  not  for  their  flowers  or  fruits  but  for 
their  green  leaves  under  whose  magical  spell  I 
revive  my  own  youthfulness  and  am  glad  again 
to  start  life  anew  making,  so  to  say,  an  eighth 
rise  after  seven  falls.  I  confess  I  had  not  heard 
before  our  mountain  cuckoos  ;  my  imagination 
would  be  glad  to  think  of  them,  like  Words- 
worth, as  an  invisible  thing,  a  voice,  a  mystery, 
never  seen  but  eternally  longed  for ;  are  they 
not  like  the  English  cuckoos,  a  winged  ghost 
of  the  hope  or  love  of  the  golden  time  we  wish 
to  command  ?  Although  the  bonitos  have  lost 
their  dignity  lately,  I  dare  say,  among  modem 
Japanese,  the  above  'seventeen  syllables,'  a 
voice  of  not  only  the  poet  but  the  populace, 
must  have  been  written  at  the  time  of  the 
height  of  the  old  Japanese  civilization  that  is 

59 


The 

Decline  of 
the 

Japanese 

Taste    of 

Tongue 


Through        during    the    Tokugawa    feudalism,    when    the 
Torii  people's  taste  of  tongue  grew  most  delicate  and 

specialized,  and  their  heart  at  once  responded 
to  the  call  of  the  first  bonitos  which,  as  Basho 
wrote,  would  have  been  left  living  at  Kama- 
kura  ;  I  am  told  a  story  perhaps  true  that  the 
Yedo  people  (present  Tokyoans)  were  pleased 
to  buy  them  even  when  they  had  to  raise  the 
price  by  pawning.  Oh,  dear,  rotten,  foolish, 
romantic  old  Tokugawa  civilization  !  It  may 
not  have  been  their  taste  itself ;  what  they 
craved  was,  doubtless,  just  the  feeling  that  they 
had  eaten  the  first  bonitos  of  the  year ;  indeed, 
for  that  feeling,  not  only  in  food  but  in  any 
other  thing,  they  lived  and  died.  Oh,  most 
unpractical  old  Tokyoans,  what  slavishness  to 
the  senses ! 

The  other  day  I  opened  the  books  written 
by  Shamba,  and  came  across  a  little  thing 
called  "  The  Face  and  the  Back  of  a  Man 
Proud  in  Cooking,"  somewhere,  with  the 
following  lines  : 

"  I  presume  that  your  cook  has  been  changed. 
No,  he  has  not  been  changed  ?     Oh,  yes,  he 
must  have   been   changed.      This   honourable 
60 


tongue  of  mine  is  a  cloudless  looking-glass  you 
cannot  deceive." 

Although  such  words  as  the  above  were 
written,  of  course,  by  the  author  to  laugh  over 
a  hankatsu  or  a  fellow  half-learned,  they  cast 
a  light  on  the  time  when  cooking  was  studied, 
like  flower-arrangement  or  tea-drinking,  even 
by  the  populace ;  it  was  the  civilization  of  the 
Tokugawa  feudalism  that  found  first  the 
development  of  house-building  as  it  was  natural 
for  the  samurais,  those  uncultured  builders  of 
the  city,  to  think  of  the  house  to  satisfy  their  wild 
vanity ;  and  when  the  time  was  on  the  speedy 
way  to  advancement,  we  saw,  as  a  natural 
development,  the  sudden  demonstration  of 
dresses  with  new  designs  and  colour  schemes.  It 
was  at  the  Bunkwa  and  Bunsei  (1804 — 1830) 
that  the  art  or,  let  me  say,  poetry  of  cooking 
had  been  creating  its  own  cult,  and  as  a 
matter  natural,  the  establishment  of  the  famous 
restaurants  or  so-called  tea-houses,  for  instance, 
Hirasei,  Kasai  Taro,  Momokawa,  the  most 
famous  of  all,  Yaozen  under  the  patronage  of 
Hoitsu  and  other  known  artists  and  poets, 
originated  in  those  days  ;  it  is  not  too  much  to 

61 


The 

Decline  of 
the 

Japanese 

Taste  of 

Tongue 


Through        sav    ^j.   tnose   periods,    I   mean   the   time  of 
Torii  Bunkwa    and    Bunsei,   are    the  zenith   of   our 

feudal   civilization   in  which  we  heard  already 
the  voice  of  the  approaching  fall. 

I  have  been  interested  lately  in  the  life  of 
Hoitsu  Sakai,  one  of  the  most  distinguished 
decadents  of  the  early  nineteenth  century,  who, 
being  born  the  second  son  of  the  fifteenth  Lord 
Sakai,  escaped  from  the  formality  or  pretence 
attached  to  his  birth  into  art  and  poetry  by 
whose  kind  restraint  his  soul  freedom-loving 
and  even  dissipated  (it  was  the  good  old  time 
when  dissipation  was  thought  quite  natural) 
was  distilled  and  ennobled ;  we  always  attribute 
it  to  the  times  that  the  high-minded  exultation 
and  decorative  composure  of  Korin  of  the 
former  age  became  a  delicacy  and  refinement  in 
Hoitsu's  art,  and  the  care-unknown  masculinity 
of  Kikaku's  poetry  turned  to  more  frivolity  and 
witticism  at  the  best  in  his  hokkus  ;  but  there 
is  no  denying  the  fact  that  his  senses  poetical 
or  otherwise  had  become  most  sensitive.  And 
it  was  indeed  wonderful  to  know  what  delicacy 
(that  artistic  delicacy  might  be  compared  with 
that  of  Utarnaro's  women  who  would  appear 
62 


disturbed  even  by  one  touch  of  your  fingertip) 
not  only  Hoitsu  but  nearly  all  the  artists  and 
poets  of  that  age  had  in  all  life's  questions, 
from  the  dress  to  the  food.  Now  to  return  to 
their  delicate  taste  of  tongue.  It  was  those 
people  who  could  distinguish  the  place  of  origin 
of  water  from  its  taste,  could  tell  where  the  tea 
was  produced,  by  what  sunlight  it  was  fed, 
from  the  drinking  of  it ;  I  was  told  that  once 
Hoitsu  ate  a  Sashimi  (slices  of  raw  fish)  of 
bonito  at  Yaozen  and  called  the  cook  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  not  used  a  knife  freshly 
whetted.  The  cook  surprised  by  his  words 
begged  him  to  tell  him  how  he  knew  it. 
Hoitsu  said  that  he  smelled  a  faint  odour  of 
whetstone  on  the  fish,  and  then  told  him  that 
he  should  dip  the  knife,  when  newly  whetted, 
into  a  well  for  several  hours  before  using. 

The  Tokugawa  feudalism  fell  after  long  three 
hundred  years  of  power,  and  the  new  regime 
has  not  arisen  yet;  the  people  were  suddenly 
thrown  into  tumult  and  suspicion  fifty  or  sixty 
years  ago  ;  how  could  they  admire  the  green 
leaves  of  early  summer,  as  1  do  to-day,  in  peace 
and  content,  and  wish  to  hear  mountain  cuckoos 

63 


The 

Decline  of 
the 

Japanese 

Taste   of 

Tongue 


Through        ancj  taste  the  £rst  bonitos  ?     It  was  a  pitv  that 

tft#*  ^ 

Torii  their  taste  of  tongue  which,  as  the  last  develop- 

ment of  civilization,  had  highly  advanced,  now 
lost  its  own  place ;  and  when  the  time  began 
to  return  to  prosperity  quite  altered  from  the 
former  age,  aftei  finishing  the  so-called  civil 
war  of  the  tenth  year,  the  cult  or  art  of  old 
Japanese  cooking  found  the  situation  unfavour- 
able under  the  invasion  of  Western  food  ;  it 
was  since  1 880  that  the  restaurants  of  Western 
way  of  cooking,  here  with  the  name  of  Western 
Sea  house,  like  the  American  Hall  or  London 
Restaurant,  began  to  flock  into  the  city.  Here 
they  met  an  immediate  reception,  because  the 
food  was  served  quickly,  unlike  the  regular  old 
Japanese  tea-house,  and  above  all  the  charge 
was  small.  There  is  no  better  supporter  for  a 
restaurant  than  economy  ;  with  that  backing  the 
foreign  restaurants  became  successful.  I  myself 
always  drop  in  one  of  those,  whether  it  be 
London  Restaurant  (Oh,  what  does  that  mean 
anyhow  ?)  or  American  Hall  (again  what  does 
that  mean  ?)  to  take  a  little  lunch  when  I  am  in 
town,  because,  as  I  said  before,  the  charge  is 
small  (in  fact  it  is  extraordinarily  high  for  what 

64 


I  shall  get)  and  the  service  quick.  Pray, 
gentleman  at  the  other  side  of  the  table,  eat 
your  soup  without  making  such  a  noise.  Oh, 
again,  do  not  use  toothpicks  so  often  while 
eating  ;  pray,  do  not  open  your  mouth  so  wide, 
at  least  to  yawn.  Who  dropped  a  knife  ? 
Whose  napkin  is  that  I  see  here  ?  Oh,  what 
mannerlessness  !  Is  that  all  the  table  manners 
for  a  people  who  claim  to  have  learned  etiquette 
and  rites  in  the  olden  days  ?  And  on  the  other 
hand,  what  cooking !  How  tasteless,  how 
watery !  It  always  sets  my  mind  to  thinking 
what  use  to  introduce  the  superficial  Western 
civilization  here  ;  what  do  you  say,  one  hundred 
years  we  must  have  before  we  can  digest  it 
completely.  What  concerns  me  here  chiefly  is 
how  the  people's  taste  in  cooking  has  declined  ; 
is  it  unrecoverable?  Yes,  it  is  unrecoverable 
indeed.  "  We  are  returning  to  the  barbarous 
states  of  the  Middle  Age ;  oh,  how  meaningless, 
when  facing  the  Western  dishes ;  and  the  cook 
is  no  better  than  the  eater  himself,"  I  exclaimed. 


The 

Decline  of 
the 

Japanese 

Taste  of 

Tongue 


Through      THE  FOURTEENTH  OF  DECEMBER 

the 
Torn 

WITHOUT,  the  wind  blows,  the  same  old 
Japanese  wind  as  ages  ago  ;  within,  a  porcelain 
gas  grate,  imported  from  London  or  New 
York,  hissed  unceremoniously  in  its  foreign,  as 
we  say,  throaty  voice.  A  while  ago  I  begged 
the  manager  of  this  restaurant  to  stop  the 
barbarity  of  a  graphophone,  with  all  due  ack- 
nowledgement of  its  innocence  in  rendering 
Robert  Ingersoll's  speech  or  a  anatch  of  coon 
song  or  what  not.  Here  is  a  dining  room  a  la 
Francaise,  with  walls  painted  in  red  and 
looking-glasses  on  every  side ;  we,  all  fellow- 
workers  at  Keio  College,  Tokyo,  fifty  or  sixty 
in  all,  gathered  around  the  table,  quite  a  family 
affair,  for  the  customary  banquet  at  the  end  of 
the  year  before  we  hasten  to  slip  into  our  little 
nest  for  four  weeks'  rest.  Prof.  B.,  who  has 
returned  recently  from  Berlin,  talked  on  the 
European  revolution  in  the  theatrical  art  and 
the  work  of  Max  Reinhardt,  only  to  irritate 
the  old  mind  of  Mr.  H.  who  did  not  know 
this  brilliant  German  was  too,  after  all,  a 
romanticist,  but  with  a  different  mien ;  Prof.  A. 

66 


who  sat  on  my  left,  evidently  with  H.  G.  Wells 
and  Bernard  Shaw  in  his  mind,  was  going  to 
expand  his  opinion  on  the  English  departure 
from  stereotyped  solidarity,  at  least  in  literature. 
Did  I  listen  to  him  ?  Not  I.  As  -my  mind  lately 
has  grown  to  be  delighted  in  simplicity,  my 
eyes  most  ardently  fell  on  the  menu  ;  I  confess 
that  such  an  innocent  word  written  on  it  gave 
me  a  far  better  impression  than  words  spoken 
by  poets  from  the  golden  clime.  I  read  the 
menu  from  top  to  bottom,  and  again  from 
bottom  to  top ;  when  I  could  not  find  anything 
special,  I  set  my  eyes  on  the  date  printed  at 
the  top,  "December  14th,  1911,"  as  if  on 
the  name  of  some  strange  new  dish. 

"  Oh,  this  is  the  fourteenth  of  December," 
1  exclaimed  in  my  dreamy  mind. 

I  raised  my  face  to  the  looking-glass  on  the 
opposite  side,  where  a  large  part  of  the  scene 
of  the  banquet  (what  a  monkey  show,  indeed  !) 
was  reflected,  all  the  guests  in  Western  dress, 
quite  skilful  in  handling  knives  and  forks, 
looking  even  natural  as  if  they  were  born  with 
butter  and  bread  ;  I  presently  asked  myself  as 
in  a  dream  if  this  was  real  Japan  where  our 
67 


The 

Fourteenth 

of 

December 


Through        fathers,  only  fifty  years  ago,  wore  two  swords 
Torii  "*  place  °f  tne  gold  watch  of  to-day,  and  ate 

rice  gruel  in  place  of  beef  and  lobster.  Oh} 
what  a  change  !  And  then  I  questioned  again 
how  true  Japan  could  be  related  with  the 
Western  luxuries ;  I  am  sure  that  real  Japan 
would  do  very  well  without  Chamberlain's 
single  eyeglass  and  Turkish  cigarette.  My 
mind,  which  suddenly  hated  and  loathed  our 
modern  life,  tacitly  declined  to  take  the 
asparagus  when  they  were  passed  round, 
simply  from  the  reason  of  their  being  of  foreign 
origin,  and  tried  to  live  (bless  my  soul)  on  the 
very  thought  of  the  fourteenth  of  December. 
What  about  that  fourteenth  of  December? 
Why,  it  was  on  that  night,  that  is  to  say, 
this  very  night  some  two  hundred  fifty  years 
ago,  that  the  now  world-famous  forty-seven 
.  -  ronins  headed  by  Kuranosuke  Oishi,  kicked  the 
silence  and  snow  with  their  determined  feet  of 
loyalty,  and  rushed  into  their  enemy's  house. 
Yes,  it  is  said  that  it  snowed  terribly  that 
night,  although  to-night  only  the  wind  blows 
without. 

My    mind    took    me    back    straight   to  my 

68 


boyhood  days,  particularly  the  fourteenth  of 
December  of  more  than  twenty  years  ago, 
when  we  little  boys  used  to  gather  in  the 
prayer-room  of  Kojoji  Temple,  and  read,  all 
through  the  night,  the  whole  history  of  the  loyal 
spirits  of  those  forty-seven  ronins  under  the 
candle  lights  which  burned  well  to  encourage 
us.  How  we  cried  in  reading  the  part  of 
Chikara  Oishi,  a  slip  of  a  boy  of  sixteen,  who, 
with  his  father  Kuranosuke,  most  composedly 
accomplished  harakiri  after  the  revenge  was 
realised  ;  we  could  not  help  feeling  ashamed 
before  him.  When  the  night  and  also  the 
reading  had  advanced,  the  Father  of  the  temple 
used  to  offer  us  rice  giuel,  as  the  custom, 
to  warm  us  up;  what  a  difference  between 
that  rice  gruel  and  the  roast-beef  of  the  present 
day !  The  rice  gruel  became,  it  is  said,  a 
customary  treat  (oh,  this  fourteenth  night  of 
December !)  for  the  boys'  party  gathered  to 
read  about  the  forty-seven  ronins  ever  since,  as 
history  or  story  tells  us,  Matsudaira  Mutsu  no 
Kami,  the  Prince  of  Sendai,  first  treated  the 
ronins  to  rice  gruel  at  dawn,  that  is  on  the 
fifteenth,  when  they  passed  before  his  palace 
69 


The 

Fcurteenth 

of 

December 


Through        gate  towards  Sengakuji  Temple,   where  their 
*erii  lord    was    buried.       By    the    way,    Sengakuji 

Temple  is  only  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  here 
where  we  are  dining  in  Western  fashion.  The 
rice  gruel  and  the  ronins  with  the  hearts  of 
Bushido  and  simplicity.  Oh,  how  they  fit 
one  another !  Nobody,  I  am  sure,  would 
believe  if  he  were  told  that  the  ronins 
accepted  with  many  thanks  Prince  Sendai's 
treat,  suppose,  of  oyster  patties  or  soft-shell 
crabs.  What  an  effeminacy  in  the  Western 
dish! 

Now,  struggling  with  a  rather  tough  roast 
beef  (look  at  the  Yorkshire  pudding,  a  side 
dish  offered  at  our  President's  suggestion,  to 
please  or  amuse  some  of  us  who  had  sad 
experience  at  cheap  English  boarding  houses) 
my  mind  did  not  hover  round  the  table,  but 
was  outside  in  the  street  hastening,  perhaps, 
towards  Ryogoku  Bridge  upon  the  heap  of 
snow  now  ceased  to  fall.  Thanks  for  the 
magic  of  my  imagination !  My  mind's  eyes 
saw,  with  such  a  crowd  here,  the  forty-seven 
loyalists,  after  the  heroism  of  the  night,  march- 
ing by  in  ranks  under  the  bright  morning  sun- 
70 


light  which  made  us  read  the  names  in  black 
characters  embroidered  on  the  broad  white 
ground  of  their  coats.  So  there  is  Yasubei 
Horibe.  Is  he  Yagoro  Senzaki?  Our  be- 
loved Genzo  Akagaki,  the  two-sword  bacchus, 
looks  so  handsome,  and  sober  too.  Oh,  where 
is  the  poet  Gengo  Otaka  ? 

The  immortality  of  Otaka  is  doubtly  sealed 
by  the  now-famous  letter  by  the  eminent  poet 
Kikaku  written  to  his  friend  at  Akita,  who  by 
accident  or  fortune,  was  at  the  house  of  a 
neighbour  of  Kozuke  no  Kami,  the  ronins 
enemy,  for  a  poetly  party  on  that  very  night ; 
Otaka,  the  hoklcu  poet,  was  despatched  by 
his  chief  to  go  round  and  deliver  the  message 
that  no  hurt  should  be  done  to  any  neighbouring 
house,  as  the  ronins  were  neither  night  robbers 
nor  ruffians,  but  begging  the  people  to  keep  a 
close  watch  against  the  possible  outbreak  of 
fires.  And  this  Gengo  Otaka  was  Kikaku's 
poetical  friend.  The  latter's  letter  says : 

'"  He  left  here  as  soon  as  his  message  was 
told.  It  goes  without  saying  that  his  voice 
was  most  composed.  I  saw  at  once  that  his 
last  moment  was  near.  I  rushed  out  of  the 


The 

Fourteenth 

of 

December 


Through        gate>  exclaiming  :  '  Thy  friend,  Kikaku,  is  right 
Tom  here.     ^et  k*m  see    l^y    heroism.'      All    the 

ronins  must  have  already  entered  Kira's  house 

at  that  moment.     I  sang  aloud : 

'It's  light— 

The  snow  upon  my  hat, 
When  it's  mine.' 

We  shut  the  gate,  raised  the  lighted  lanterns 
by  the  outside  fence,  and  secretly  watched  the 
progress  of  this  extraordinary  affair.  The 
women  called  the  men;  the  crying  voice  of 
boys  and  girls  was  carried  by  the  sad  wind. 
It  seemed  that  the  final  object  had  been 
attained  when  the  dawn  approached.  Gengo 
Otaka  called  on  us  with  Chikara  Oishi  to 
thank  us ;  Oh,  it  would  be  called,  indeed,  the 
honour  of  samurais.  Otaka  wrote  the  follow- 
ing poem : 

'  Oh,  blessing  of  sunlight ! 
They  will  soon  be  crushed — 
Those  thick  ices.' 

(This  hokku  poem   suggests  that   his  aim  in 
completing  the  final  revenge  has  been  accom- 
plished under  heaven's  mercy.) 
72 


What  a  noble  soul  of  Otaka !  His  image 
is  unforgettable  and  ever  looms  before  my 
eyes." 

I  was  awakened  from  my  dream  by  my 
friend  at  my  right  when  he  suddenly  asked  me 
why  I  kept  such  a  silence  to-night.  1  thanked 
the  President  and  fellow-workers  for  the 
pleasure  of  the  banquet;  but  what  I  really 
meant  was  that  I  was  glad  to  be  undisturbed, 
even  for  awhile,  in  following  my  sweet  dream. 

The  party  soon  broke  up.  I  bade  good- 
night to  my  friend,  who  vanished  into  the  cold 
wind  and  darkness  in  the  street 

"  This  is  certainly  a  prosaic  life  we  are 
leading,"  I  exclaimed. 


The 

Fourteenth 

of 

December 


73 


Through  A  HANDKERCHIEF 

the 
Torii 

THE  clouds,  impossible,  sad,  had  at  last 
broken  last  night ;  thank  God,  the  rainy  season 
is  over.  I  agree  with  one  who  says  that  the 
true  Japanese  atmosphere,  intensely  grey,  soft 
like  a  tired  breath  of  ageless  incense,  is  to  be 
found  in  the  rainy  season ;  but  like  anyone 
who  is  rebellious  (to  be  rebellious  is  quite 
Japanese-like),  I  always  objected  to  seeing  its 
beauty.  This  morning  the  sunlight  is  so 
golden,  but,  I  say,  not  too  harsh ;  I  doubted  my 
own  eye  and  even  thought  if  this  were  not 
somewhere  in  Hawaii  or  the  Philippines.  It 
is  the  fact  that  I  was  in  Tokyo,  taking  a  street 
car  towards  my  college  at  Mita.  The  car  was 
crowded  with  people  who,  as  it  was  already 
in  the  hot  summer,  had  decided — all  of  them 
— without  any  discussion,  to  act  barbarously 
and  wear  the  thinnest  kimono  just  for  an 
excuse;  many  of  them  even  exposed  their 
naked  legs.  But  their  barbarism  did  not 
wound  my  mind,  which  had  seen  enough  of 
Western  customs ; .  and  it  appeared  quite  strik- 
ing and  romantic,  like  Hokusai's  pictures.  I 

74 


might  be  myself  a  bit  of  a  savage  in  my  heart,        A  Hand" 

kerchief 
the  lover  or  tropical  immorality ;  to  be  unmoral 

is  at  least  comfortable.  I  found  many  women 
in  the  car,  who  strangely  enough,  looked 
equally  young,  wild  and  curious  like  a  pussy ; 
I  suddenly  thought  myself  to  be  a  foreigner,  to 
whom  the  Japanese  women  ever  appear  as 
girls.  It  may  be  true  that  they  never  grow  old 
and  ugly.  There  sat  right  before  me  a  really 
pretty  girl,  who  might  not  be  over  seventeen ; 
her  ivory-skinned  cheeks  glowed  within  like  a 
pearl  under  the  already  hot  sunlight.  She 
wore  a  cotton  cloth,  of  course,  of  one  thick- 
ness, with  a  large  design  which  was  a  creation 
of  old  Japan,  when  people  were  gay  and  free ; 
she  looked  like  one  who  has  just  stepped  out 
of  an  old  colour-print,  massive  in  colour,  weary 
in  tone.  She  had  such  a  beautiful  eye,  clear 
like  a  sea,  determined,  not  a  bit  afraid ;  on  the 
contrary,  even  wishing  to  be  loved  by  a 
Western-sea  man.  She  might  be  a  Madam 
Chrysanthemum  in  Loti's  story;  like  her  she 
was,  I  fancied,  charmingly  barbarous.  This 
Madam  Chrysanthemum  had  a  little  cotton 
handkerchief  under  her  bosom,  which  she  took 

75 


Through  ou^  fondly  looked  on,  and  hid  again.  It  was 
no  other  kind  than  a  common  handkerchief 
with  which  foreigners  blow  their  noses.  Why 
does  she  take  a  particular  care  of  it,  I 
wondered.  Not  only  this  girl,  nearly  all  the 
Japanese  women,  carry  a  cotton  handkerchief, 
not  for  blowing  their  noses,  but  for  many  other 
decent  purposes ;  I  thought  it  was  most  absurd, 
even  shabby,  as  I  learned  in  the  West  it  was 
merely  to  blow  the  nose.  But  this  Madam 
Chrysanthemum  did  not  strike  me  as  laughable 
at  all,  even  with  her  cotton  handkerchief, 
which  she  took  out,  fondly  looked  on,  and  hid 
again.  I  thought  it  was  most  important  to 
solve  why  she  took  such  a  particular  care 
with  it. 

It  might  be,  I  fancied,  from  the  hereditary 
reverence  towards  cotton ;  we  have  a  romantic 
legend  of  a  certain  weaving  maiden  in  the  sky 
in  connexion  with  the  Milky  Way,  and  we 
regard  her  even  as  a  goddess.  It  may  not  be 
possibly  that.  Then  what?  I  kept  up  my 
reverie  while  the  car  rolled  on  unceasingly.  I 
suddenly  thought  it  might  be  the  handkerchief 
which  had  been  given  her  (this  inexperienced 
76 


Madam  Chrysanthemum)  by  her  Western  A  hand' 
lover,  who,  good  God  !  bought  her  whole  soul 
and  heart  with  such  a  trifling  gift  as  that. 
"  Yes,  it  is  that.  Poor  Madam  Chrysanthe- 
mum," 1  exclaimed  in  a  dream  even  to  frighten 
one  who  sat  by  me. 

I  got  off  the  car  at  the  proper  place  to  hurry 
to  my  college ;  but  my  mind  was  still  occupied 
with  the  handkerchief  of  the  Madam  Chrysan- 
themum whom  I  saw  in  the  car.  She  is 
honest  and  true,  I  thought.  I  arrived  at  the 
college  some  time  before  my  class  hour ;  I  sat 
on  the  chair  in  the  professors'  room ;  and  1 
suddenly  thought  if  I  were  not  a  Madam 
Chrysanthemum  who  had  not  a  cotton  hand- 
kerchief but  a  stray  knowledge  of  English 
literature  which  I  take  out  from  my  bosom  and 
look  upon  in  the  class-room.  It  is,  indeed,  the 
little  knowledge,  almost  valueless,  like  a  hand- 
kerchief with  which  a  foreigner,  especially  an 
English-speaking  one,  might  blow  his  nose ; 
but  I  got  it  by  selling  my  whole  soul  and  heart 
I  am  honest  and  true,  like  that  Madam  Chrys- 
anthemum in  my  dream ;  do  you  dare  laugh 
at  me? 

77 


Throush  MORNING-GLORY 

the 
Torii 

CERTAINLY  it  was  Korin's  adventurous  turn  of 
artistic  mind  to  strikingly  introduce  the  morning- 
glory,  the  blushing  flower  lasses  by  the  bamboo 
fences  of  the  countryside  almost  too  shy  to  call 
attention,  into  the  six-folded  screen  of  gold 
(what  an  aristocratic  world)  in  pigments  of  red, 
white,  purple  and  green ;  while,  far  from  deem- 
ing Korin  a  true  artist  of  flowers,  I  always  agree 
with  him  in  the  point  of  his  emphasising,  let  me 
say,  the  greatness  of  little  things.  Through  the 
virtue  of  such  an  Oriental  attitude  of  philosophy 
which  serves  as  moral  geometry,  defining  our 
sense  of  proportion  to  the  universe,  we  have 
made  the  morning-glory  gain  its  floral  distinction 
of  to-day  from  the  state  of  nameless  weed  of 
long  ages  ago  which  a  certain  Obaku  temple 
priest  of  Uji  brought  from  China.  What  a 
change  in  the  public  estimate  ! 

I  love  the  months  of  summer,  because  I  can 
commune  more  intimately  then  with  the  nature 
from  whose  heart  of  imagination  and  peace, 
unlike  that  of  spring  too  fanciful  and  defiant, 
again  unlike  that  of  autumn  too  philosophical 
78 


and  real,  I  will  build  a  little  dream  and  slowly  Morning- 
wear  away  my  soul  as  if  a  cicada  tired  after  a 
heartful  song ;  I  love  them  as  I  find  in  them 
quite  a  Celtic  infinitude  which  is  commingled 
twilight  and  weariness.  Hear  the  nocturnal 
song  of  the  summer  nights  in  the  flashes  of 
fireflies  and  lanterns  swinging  as  if  the  spirits 
from  another  world,  which  shall  be,  long  before 
reaching  the  climax,  interrupted  by  the  early 
dawn  (how  short  are  the  summer  nights !), 
when  my  heart  at  once  opens  wide  as  the 
morning-glory  ;  I  am  an  early  riser  then,  in  spite 
of  my  being  a  late  riser  in  other  seasons,  with 
that  morning-glory  whose  floral  beauty  or  flame 
is  born  out  of  dews  and  sunlight,  the  colour  of 
transparency  itself  out  of  whose  heart,  as  it 
seems  to  me,  whether  it  be  blue  or  purple,  red 
or  white,  all  the  colour  has  been  taken. 
How  the  flower  stands  in  relation  to  the 
breath  or  odour  of  the  summer  dawn  would 
be  exactly  the  same  problem  as  how  I  stand 
towards  it ;  I  am  glad  to  read  myself  through 
their  presence,  my  own  strength  of  impulse 
towards  nature  and  song.  What  a  stretch  of 
vines  of  the  morning-glory,  what  force  of  theirs 

79 


Through        hardly  conceivable  as  belonging  to  the  vege- 

the 

Torii 


table    kind,    what    a    sensitiveness   more   than 


human  ;  there's  no  wonder  when  one  can  read 
every  change  of  the  hour  and  even  minute  of 
the  day  in  their  look  and  attitude.  I  often  ask 
myself  why  they  do  not  speak  a  word  of  grief 
or  joy,  when  they  fade  away  with  their  spirits 
of  flight  across  the  seas  of  the  unknowable  ; 
perhaps  they  do  speak  it,  although  my  ears 
seem  not  to  hear  it  at  all. 

When  Kaga  no  Chiyo,  the  lady  hokkushi 
or  seventeen-syllable  poetess  of  some  two 
hundred  years  ago,  wrote — 

"  Asagawo  ni 
Tsurube  torarete 
Moral  mizu." 

I  see  at  once,  not  the  moral  teaching,  although 
the  commentator  wishes  to  bring  it  out  first, 
but  one  beautiful  emotion  of  accident  realised 
by  the  morning-glory  and  her  heart  with  the 
summer  dawn  as  a  background.  But  where 
Sir  Edwin  Arnold  translated  Chiyo's  poem  into 
the  following  English  : 

"  The  morning-glory 
Her  leaves  and  bells  has  bound 

80 


My  bucket-handle  round.  Morning- 

I  could  not  break  the  bands  Glory 

Of  those  soft  hands. 
The  bucket  and  the  well  to  her  left, 
'  Let  me  some  water,  for  I  come  bereft.'  " 

I  see  that  the  lyrical  gleam  of  the  original  has 
turned,  alas  !  to  prosaic  formality  •  I  almost  cry 
that  it  is  hopeless  if  the  poet  has  to  put  in  two 
lines  (the  fourth  and  fifth)  which  the  original 
has  not  (in  fact,  the  translation  has  ten  times 
more  than  the  original,  and  spiritually  ten  times 
less),  and  wonder  at  the  poetical  possibility  of 
the  English  mind.  And  how  those  rhymes 
bother  my  Japanese  mind  in  love  with  irregu- 
larity ! 

It  might  be  proper  to  thank,  if  thank  one 
must,  our  Japanese  moralists  for  their  tireless 
propagation  in  popularising  the  morning-glory, 
as  they  find  them  to  be  the  things  fittest  for 
encouraging  the  habit  of  early-rising ;  it  seems 
they  do  not  quite  understand  how  the  word 
simplicity  sounds  to  our  modern  minds,  whose 
passion,  is  more  psychical,  when  those  good 
old  moralists  wish  to  solve  all  the  questions  of 
the  morning-glory  with  the  power  of  that  one 

81 


Through        WOrd.     I    agree   with    them   in    calling    them 
Torii  plebeian  or  democratic  on  account  of  the  little 

cost  of  raising  them  ;  I  see  frequently  they  are 
blooming  as  beautifully  as  in  any  millionaire's 
garden  upon  the  dangerous  roof  of  tile  or  badly 
kept  bamboo  porch  for  people  who  cannot 
well  afford  to  have  even  a  few  yards  of  ground 
in  crowded  cities.  It  is  surprising  to  find  out 
that  the  flowers  which  were  raised  under  such 
conditions  of  privation  always  get  the  distin- 
guished medals  at  the  general  exhibition.  I 
am  told  that  the  chrysanthemums  are  often  the 
true  cause  of  a  man's  poverty ;  but  the  morning- 
glories  will  never  invite  such  a  reproach  when 
they  only  entreat  you  to  rise  early  (but,  re- 
member, with  plenty  of  love),  and,  when  you 
have  company,  suggest  you  to  offer  a  cup  of 
tea. 

Putting  aside  all  sentimentality,  the  whole 
credit,  I  think,  should  go  to  our  horticulturists, 
who,  as  with  the  chrysanthemum,  have  raised 
the  morning-glory  from  a  weed  into  a  floral 
wonder  as  we  see  it  to-day,  of  such  a  variety 
of  shapes,  from  a  dragon's  moustache  to  the 
hanging  bell ;  of  such  a  variety  of  colour,  from 
82 


the  foam  of  the  sea  or  frozen  moonlight  to  the  Morning- 
purple  sky  or  striped  shade  of  a  cascade ;  of 
such  a  variety  of  size,  from  half  a  foot  in 
diameter  to  starlike  smallness.  There  is  no 
other  flower  like  the  morning-glory,  so  sensitive 
to  our  human  love,  and,  let  me  say,  horticul- 
tural art.  I  have  only  to  wonder  whether  the 
human  beings  and  the  morning-glory  are  not 
bom  from  the  same  old  heart  of  mystery  in 
Japan. 


Through        THE  JAPANESE  PLUM-BLOSSOM 

the 
Torii 

MY  friend  looked  aghast  when  I  declared: 
"  The  beauty  that  we  gladly  attach  to  the 
Japanese  plum-blossom  (I  say  Japanese  to 
distinguish  it  from  the  Western  plum-blossom) 
/nay  not  exist ;  it  is,  I  dare  say,  only  the  stories 
or  poems  of  long-dead  people  which  are 
associated  with  them  that  make  them  look 
beautiful."  I  do  not  mean  to  speak  striking 
language  merely  to  pose  as  a  clever  man ;  I 
always  believed  in  what  I  said  to  my  friend 
upon  the  plum-blossom.  It  would  perhaps  be 
better  to  begin  with  the  definition  of  beauty ; 
beauty  is  no  beauty,  I  think,  if  it  has  no 
universal  appeal.  I  almost  thought  it  wrong 
to  speak  of  the  beauty  of  the  plum-blossom, 
though  beautiful  it  is  in  some  meaning  ;  I  was 
often  asked  by  a  foreigner  why  we  make  so 
much  of  them.  It  is  perfectly  right  of  him  not 
to  see  the  beauty  which  we  think  we  see  well ; 
because  a  Japanese  story  or  poem  in  associa- 
tion with  the  plum-blossom  makes  no  slightest 
impression  on  his  mind.  It  is  in  that  story  or 
poem,  as  I  said  before,  their  beauty  is,  but  not 
84 


in  the  flowers  themselves.     We  at  once  see  The 

t      i  i  rill-  Japanese 

the   tremor   or    the    ghosts    or    old    history   or 


tradition,  the  ghosts   of   reminiscences,    in   the        Blossom 

thrill  of  whiteness  in  their  petals,  we  might  say, 

like  something  of  an  angel's  smile  or  like  a  rim 

of  eternity  ;  if  there  is  an  unmistakable  beauty 

in  the  plum-blossom,  it  is  in  your  own  mind. 

Well,  after  all,  where  is  beauty  if  not  in  your 

imagination  ? 

However,  there  are  some  reasons  why  our 
ancestors  loved  the  plum-blossom  and  we  love 
them  still.  I  do  not  know  how  we  became 
the  passionate  lovers  of  flowers  :  it  is  the  fact 
that  we  are  ;  and  during  the  months  of  winter 
we  are  deprived  of  joy  with  the  flowers.  And 
the  plum-blossom  happens  to  appear  from 
under  much  snow  and  wind  as  a  harbinger  or 
prophet  of  spring.  Some  Japanese  essayist 
says  :  "  you  are  the  prophet  Jeremiah  ;  you  are 
John  the  Baptist.  Standing  before  you  I  feel  as 
though  in  the  presence  of  some  solemn  master. 
Yet  by  your  presence  I  know  that  winter  has 
passed  and  that  the  delightful  spring  is  at 
hand."  The  fact  of  their  being  a  first-born 
among  the  flowers  makes  the  Oriental  mind,  in 

85 


Through        |ove  of    symbolism   and  allegory,   associate  it 
Torii  w^h  courage  and  undaunted  spirit;  their  sim- 

plicity in  appearance,  their  utter  lack  of  wealth 
in  floral  substance,  has  become  profitably  an 
object-lesson  for  the  cherishing  of  pride  even 
in  poverty.  A  thought  of  plum-blossom  re- 
minds me  of  an  age,  perhaps  the  age  under  the 
Hojo  feudalism,  when  life's  simplicity  was 
promulgated  even  as  a  theory ;  I  think  the  love 
and  admiration  of  the  plum-blossom  belong  to 
a  comparatively  modern  age  in  Japan,  which  is 
almost  agelessly  old.  But  I  do  not  mean  to  say 
they  had  no  admirer  in  ancient  age  :  they  had, 
for  instance,  Michizane  of  the  nineth  century. 

There  is,  in  fact,  an  almost  endless  list  of 
people  in  Japanese  tradition  or  story  who  have 
left  a  sign  of  close  attachment  for  them  ;  they 
are  not  the  flowers  for  children  and  people 
uneducated,  but  for  those  of  culture  and  imagin- 
ation, who  are  in  truth  their  creators  and  at 
the  same  time  their  admirers.  The  mere  ex- 
istence of  them  as  flowers  is  slight ;  but  it  is 
our  imagination  that  makes  them  great. 

Now,  speaking  of  the  evolutionary  side,  it 
seems  to  me  that  they  have  almost  reached  the 

86 


highest  possible  when  they  turn  to  fragrance ; 

the  flowers  gained  it  by  sacrifice  of  the  bodily  pium- 

beauty.     Oh,  what  a  fragrance !     If  there  is        Blossom 

any  flower  that  shows  the  utmost  economy  of 

force,   it  is  the  plum-blossom.     If   they  exist, 

they    exist    in    suggestion ;   they    are    not    the 

flowers  of   display  like  the  cherry-blossom  or 

camellia.     They  are  suggestive  :  therefore  they 

are   strong.     They   are    the    Oriental   flower 

through    and    through,    and,    above    all,    the 

gentleman    of    flowers    of    the    East — simple, 

brave,  economical,  true  and  suggestive. 

I  always  come  to  a  plum  orchard  at  the 
proper  season,  not  only  to  admire  them  but  to 
gain  the  spiritual  lesson.  Our  forefathers  used 
the  flowers  and  trees  to  advantage  as  an  object- 
lesson,  as  it  is  was  not  the  day  of  text-books  ; 
and  I  hate  to  leam  from  the  books,  and  come 
to  the  plum-blossom  to  improve  my  thoughts, 
and  always  feel  happy  that  I  have  learned 
something  of  them. 


Through  CHRYSANTHEMUM 

the 
Torii 

No  doubt  your  heart  of  real  flower-lover 
will  be  quick  to  denounce  Dangozaka  of 
Tokyo,  where  the  annual  chrysanthemum 
show,  the  most  bewildering,  fantastic  thing  of 
the  world,  in  fact,  is  held.  It  is  not  only 
Hoichi,  but  everybody  whose  mind  is  in  an 
old-fashioned  quiet  cast  will  call  the  waxwork 
chrysanthemum  showman  of  Dangozaka  an 
inferior  heart  of  man.  However,  no  one  who 
never  saw  it  can  imagine  the  cleverness  and 
some  sort  of  wonderful  art  of  Japan  that  are 
expressed  in  these  show-pieces.  Most  of  the 
scenes  of  the  Dangozaka  puppet  show  are 
from  an  old  play,  or  a  page  of  history,  or  most 
memorable  of  all,  the  newest  occurrences  of 
the  day  commemorated  in  chrysanthemums. 
The  central  idea  is  to  build  the  flower  monu- 
ment of  the  years  before  we  enter  into  sleep, 
silence,  and  oblivion,  and  the  rather  cruel  act 
of  separation  from  flower  of  December  and 
January  sets  in  with  snow  and  storm.  Indeed, 
autumn  is  the  very  season  for  our  minds  to 
think  and  reflect  what  we  did  in  the  last  nine 

88 


months.     The  flowers  which  are  used  for  the       Chrysan- 

themum 
puppet  show  are  the  real  potted  ones,  not  cut 

flowers,  the  lovely  plants  in  full  bloom,  the 
genuine  plants,  the  roots  of  which  are  skilfully 
hidden  or  disguised.  The  colour  of  the  flowers 
will  be  combined  to  represent  the  gowns ;  the 
harmony  of  colours  and  grace  of  lines  are 
indeed  striking.  How  docile  they  are  !  Their 
docility  is  b'ke  that  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
sweet  of  women.  If  you  hear  a  voice  com- 
posed of  sky  and  light,  in  silk,  laces  and  jewels 
and  curls,  certainly  you  will  see  in  the  chry- 
santhemum gowns  the  true  lyric  and  song  of 
the  sun,  the  earth,  man  and  life,  above  all,  of 
Autumn. 

Besides  the  puppet  show,  this  Dangozaka, 
like  the  gardens  of  Counts  Okuma  and  Sakai, 
is  famous,  too,  for  the  real  chrysanthemums. 
Oh,  what  a  wonder  of  the  flower  corridors !  ~ 
Here  you  see  a  kind  which  is  to  be  compared 
only  with  fairies  with  magic  on  fingertips,  the 
flower  that  stopped  dancing  by  accident  and 
gazes  at  you  ready  to  commence  again  any 
moment.  It  is  called  the  "  Dethroned  Angel ; " 
but  I  should  like  to  call  it  the  "  Angel  Born  on 
89 


Through       ^  Earth."     See  this  flower  named  "  Amano- 
TorU  kawa  " — Milky  Way — really  the   name  itself 

tells.  It  is  coloured  in  light  purple  that  is 
woven  from  the  silver  of  the  mist  and  gentle 
rain  ;  if  you  see  it  from  a  proper  distance,  it  is 
no  other  than  a  Milky  Way  almost  ready  to 
disappear  and  still  quite  distinct  in  its  airiness. 
Here  is  a  kind  with  the  name  of  "  Dew  "  or 
Tsuzu,  whose  colour  is,  of  course,  white,  the 
creation  or  fashioning  of-  frost  and  freeze ;  if 
you  touch  it,  it  were  no  wonder  if  it  should 
vanish  like  a  dream  or  poetry.  "  Haru 
Kasumi,"  or  Spring  Haze,  reminds  me  of  the 
day,  or  Spring  with  the  air  and  wind  and 
smoke-like  amethysts,  and  our  mind  is  nimble 
as  that  of  a  lark ;  the  flower  is  grey-coloured, 
and  its  shape  charmingly  gay.  You  can 
see  without  seeing  it  what  it  might  be  when 
you  are  told  it  is  "  Natsu  Gumo,"  or  Summer 
Cloud ;  it  is  a  fantasy  of  the  cloud  that 
left  the  mountain,  the  most  strange  wings  or 
curls  of  the  flower  floating  like  bursts  of  light. 
Of  course,  it  is  "  First  of  Japan,"  or  Nippon 
Ichi,  as  it  is  the  plant  with  more  than  one 
thousand  blossoms  red,  white,  purple  and 
90 


yellow,   a   surprise  of   pell-mell  in  flower,  the       chrysan- 
,     f  ,     ,  T  themum 

most  wondertul  or  Japan. 

For  a  thousand  years  the  chrysanthemum 
was  admired  as  a  retired  beauty  by  the  garden 
fences,  and  under  a  simple  methods  of  culture ; 
but  it  became  the  flower  of  rich  personages  to 
a  great  measure  under  the  Tokugawa  feudal 
regime ;  and  lately  the  culture  of  kiku,  or 
chrysanthemum,  is  the  greatest  luxury.  It 
would  surprise  you  to  know  how  much  Counts 
Okuma  and  Sakai,  these  two  best-known 
chrysanthemum  raisers  in  Japan,  have  to  spend 
yearly.  It  seems  to  me  that  such  is  a  degenera- 
tion ;  still  you  cannot  but  appreciate  and 
admire  our  advance  in  horticulture.  When 
the  chrysanthemum  used  to  be  called,  that  is 
of  cburse,  long  ago,  "  Kukuri  Bana,"  or  Bind- 
ing Flower,  from  the  reason  that  the  flowers 
tie  or  gather  themselves  at  the  top,  and  have 
the  appearance  of  a  bouquet,  they  were 
supposed  to  be  even  a  sort  of  wild  grass,  per- 
fectly unknown  to  a  flower-lover.  The  honour 
of  the  creation  of  the  modern  wonder  of  chry- 
santhemum goes  to  a  somewhat  bigoted  florist, 
to  a  somewhat  frenzied  horticulturist,  to  whom 

91 


Through        we  owe>  not  on|y  a  chrysanthemum  bed,  but 
Torii  nearly    all    exquisite    flower-beds,     our     more 

varied,  more  delicious  vegetables  and  fruits. 
What  a  surprising  advance  of  the  chrysan- 
themum from  being  a  mere  weed ;  and  what  a 
wonder  of  a  evolution  ! 

Maeterlinck  says :  "  It  is  among  familiar 
plants,  the  most  submissive,  the  most  docile,  the 
most  tractable  and  the  most  attentive  plant  of 
all  that  we  meet  on  life's  long  way.  It  bears 
flowers  impregnated  through  and  through  with 
the  thoughts  and  will  of  man ;  flowers  already 
human,  so  to  speak,  and,  if  the  vegetable  world 
is  some  day  to  reveal  to  us  one  of  the  worlds 
that  we  are  awaiting,  perhaps  it  will  be  through 
this  flower  that  we  shall  learn  the  first  secret  of 
existence,  even  as,  in  another  kingdom,  it  is 
probably  through  the  dog,  the  almost  thinking 
guardian  of  our  homes,  that  we  shall  discover 
the  mystery  of  animal  life." 

After  all,  it  may  not  be  altogether  ridiculous 
to  fancy  the  day  will  come  when  the  chrysan- 
themums will  speak  to  you  and  me  of  the  secret 
and  beauty  of  their  flower  kingdom.  And  this 
ghostly  world  and  life  are  really  mysterious. 
92 


CHERRY-BLOSSOM  cherry- 

Blossom 

THE  cherry-blossom  has  its  great  popularity  with 
us,  unlike  the  plum-blossom,  largely  because  we 
have  no  need  to  refert  o  any  particular  story 
or  tradition  (though  stories  and  traditions  of  it 
abound) ;  but  only  to  itself  for  our  appreciation. 
With  us  appreciation  of  it  is  most  natural,  while 
often  forced  art  in  another  place.  And  you 
can  make  on  the  spot,  if  you  wish,  a  story  or 
tradition,  of  heavenly  thing  or  human  being,  to 
suit  the  cherry-blossom  and  also  your  own 
whim,  and  even  imagine  it  to  be  partly  your 
own  creation.  It  is  remarkable  that  any  story 
or  tradition,  provided  it  is  beautiful,  will  be 
found  fit  for  it.  I  know  some  flowers  of 
whom  I  can  fancy  an  ugly  thing ;  but  your 
imagination  will  soon  be  disarmed  if  you  start 
with  hostile  intention  towards  the  cherry- 
blossom.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  biggest 
offence  to  the  cherry-blossom  is  to  write  poetry 
on  it.  How  many  million  poems  have  we 
written  on  it  ?  It  is  really  appalling  to  see 
what  bad  poems  we  could  turn  out ;  it  is  a  fact 
that  the  poems  on  the  cherry-blossom  have 

93 


Through        never  even  once  been  good.     I  do  not  like  to 

the  ..  i        •    • 

Torii  believe  it  to  be  rrom  the  reason  that  it  is  a  very 

difficult  subject  to  write  on.  Indeed,  I  incline 
to  think  that  the  flower  itself  is  ever  so  pleased 
even  with  a  bad  poem.  There  is  a  flower  like 
the  plum-blossom  for  instance,  looking  so 
critical  and  hard  to  please,  whose  severe 
appearance  repels  poor  poetry ;  and  we  are 
almost  afraid  to  write  a  line  on  the  lotus, 
because  it  looks  so  holy.  And  the  lone  formal 
behaviour  of  the  Iris  makes  our  personal 
approach  impossible.  It  is  like  the  Japanese 
tea-master  wrapped  in  cold  silence.  But  the 
cherry-blossom  is  in  temperament  like  love, 
generous  enough  like  love  to  make  a  poet 
believe  his  work  is  good ;  but  in  truth  he 
always  fails,  again  as  in  love. 

I  often  quarrel  with  my  friend,  who  insists 
that  the  cherry-blossom  is  vain,  like  a  preten- 
tious woman  ;  I  always  say  to  him  that  a  proof 
that  it  is  not  will  be  seen  in  the  fact  that  it 
never  asks  your  imagination  to  value  it  for 
more  than  it  is,  as  does  the  plum-blossom 
sometimes,  and  the  morning-glory  quite  often. 
If  you  think  it  is  pretentious,  it  is  only  the 

94 


flowers  misfortune.     Go   into   the   street   and          cherry- 

k.7  .  ,  ,  Blossom 

any  jinriKistia  runner    or    even    beggar 

whom  you  come  across  what  he  thinks  about 
the  cherry-blossom ;  you  will  be  told  by  him 
exactly  what  you  think  about  it,  not  less, 
not  more.  I  am  ready  to  say  that  there  is 
only  one  occasion  during  a  long  run  of  three 
hundred  and  sixty-five  days  that  we,  low  and 
high,  poor  and  rich,  perfectly  agree  with  one 
another,  in  the  moment  when  we  are  looking 
up  to  the  cherry-blossom.  Beneath  the  cherry- 
blossom  we  return  at  once  to  our  first  simplic- 
ity. Without  that  archaic  strength  we  should 
never  be  able  to  hold  up  our  lives  and  world. 
I  have  heard  many  people  could  not  under- 
stand why  the  plum-blossom  must  bloom  at 
such  an  early  season,  when  it  even  trembles  on 
the  naked  branch,  and  why  the  maple  leaves 
must  turn  red,  like  the  showy  kimono  of  a  gay 
daughter  in  carnival,  before  they  enter  into  wintry 
rest ;  but  anybody's  heart  of  hearts  always 
awakens  at  once  when  he  sees  the  cherry- 
blossom  in  bloom,  indeed,  the  spring  of  his  soul 
and  the  spring  of  the  flower  call  to  each  other. 
We  'love  it,  too,  because  it  is  the  Japanese 

95 


Through        way    to    agree    in    love.       We    agree    often 
Torii  foolishly  but  innocently,  before  we  ask  why, 

when  we  hear  a  voice  of  a  leader.  Who  was 
the  leader  of  the  movement  for  the  general 
admiration  of  the  cherry-blossom  ?  It  was  the 
children,  I  believe,  who  brought  it  home  from 
the  countryside  a  thousand  years  ago  when 
it  was  a  nameless  flower ;  and  it  was  the  poets 
of  the  Heian  age  who  properly  introduced  it 
into  our  Japanese  life.  The  poets  were  the 
leaders  ;  and  our  spirit,  which  is  of  the  crowd, 
made  us  follow  after  them.  Is  there  any 
greater  work  for  the  poets  than  the  bringing  of 
a  flower  into  our  lives  ?  It  is  natural  with  us 
that  the  cherry-blossom  should  spiritually  evolve 
and  gain  an  influence  even  to  change  the 
physical  side  of  our  life,  particularly  two 
hundred  years  ago,  when  we  had  a  popular 
saying  that  the  Sushi  or  fighter  was  the  man  of 
men,  and  the  cherry-blossom  the  flower  of 
flowers.  It  is,  indeed,  an  interesting  psycholog- 
ical study  to  examine  the  real  relation 
between  the  cherry-blossom  and  the  Japanese. 
We  danced,  ate,  and  more  freely  drank  the 
sake  wine  all  gold,  under  its  falling  petals. 
96 


As    we    did    last    spring,    so    we    will   do         Cheny- 

Blossom 

again. 

I  do  not  care  what  history  the  cherry- 
blossom  may  have ;  what  concerns  me  most 
here  is  its  real  beauty  which  is  the  more 
enhanced  by  a  touch  of  sadness  under  the  grey 
bosom  of  the  sky  with  mists.  What  a  lamenta- 
tion of  the  flower  when  it  is  suddenly  called 
to  the  ground  by  the  evening  temple  bell  or 
sudden  rain  !  Why  has  she  to  haste  when  we 
all  wish  her  to  stay  longer  ?  I  would  like  to 
think  that  we  who  come  like  the  cherry-blossom 
shall  go  again  like  it  Our  human  lives  are, 
indeed,  beautiful  like  that  flower,  and  its  sigh 
under  the  nights  wind  is  ours.  It  is  quite 
commonplace  to  say  that  the  life  of  a  flower 
is  short.  But  it  is  most  wonderful  to  observe 
what  a  gusty  energy  is  put  into  that  short  life 
of  the  cherry-blossom  ;  it  blooms,  true  to  say, 
without  any  care,  straight  from  the  right  heart 
of  the  earth. 


97 


Through  A  JAPANESE  ON  THE  POET 

ROSSETTi 


ROSSETTI  had  enough  philosophy  and  theory, 
but  what  is  most  interesting  in  him  as  a  poet,  I 
believe,  is  not  in  them  but  in  the  very  place 
where  they  were  powerless — I  mean  the  place 
where,  like  a  light  which  brings  out  the  shadow, 
they  only  appeared  to  present  the  other  indefi- 
nable quality.  I  am  glad  his  forethought  and 
afterthought  did  not  kill  his  inspiration.  His 
art  tried  its  utmost  to  give  it  the  best  possible 
light ;  and  he  could  not  be  satisfied,  as  it  seems 
to  me,  till  he  had  taken  its  earthly  life  and 
flame  out,  and  made  it  to  be  an  art  perfect 
after  all  desires.  What  we  have  in  him,  there- 
fore, is  the  intensity  that  has  subsided,  the 
ecstasy  that  has  become  silent,  the  hope  that 
has  come  to  its  rest.  I  admire  the  proud 
manner  with  which  he  soared  above  the  jour- 
nalism of  his  own  day,  which  exists,  not  only 
to-day  but  any  day,  only  to  trouble  the  heart 
of  art ;  however,  he  made  his  art,  on  the  other 
hand,  oiten  too  uncomfortable  to  look  at  simply 
through  over-studied  carefulness,  and  even  the 


saddest  sort  of  zeal,  and  made  us  think  that  the 
beauty  of  his  song  was  a  confession,  not  a  revela- 
tion such  as  I  wish  all  poetry  to  be.  It  was 
beautiful,  of  course,  when  he  was  right,  but  in 
the  reverse  case  he  was  a  lost  one,  and  perfectly 
unbearable.  It  is  sad  his  excessive  conscious- 
ness turned  often  to  be  mere  artificiality.  I 
always  ask  myself,  when  I  read  his  poems,  how 
long  he  spent  for  the  distillation  of  his  thought 
before  he  finally  wrote  it;  even  a  poem  he  wrote 
on  the  spot,  which  was  very  rare,  however,  in 
his  case,  gives  us  an  impression  of  great  delibera- 
tion ;  this  has,  doubtless,  some  advantage,  but 
often  results  in  weakness.  He  was  one  of  the 
most  fastidious  workers  in  poetry  as  he  was  in 
painting  ;  it  seems  to  me  that  he  hated  nothing 
more  than  profusion,  and  from  that  great  hatred 
of  profusion,  made  his  loam  of  life  asunder  to 
create  a  simple  thing.  His  simplicity  was  most 
beautiful  as  it  had  clarified  from  profusion. 
However,  the  life  he  imagined  was  not  a 
happy  one.  He  was  too  absolute  in  aim  ;  his 
finding  it  very  hard  to  satisfy  himself  is  rooted 
in  solitariness.  The  first  thing  we  feel  from 
reading  his  work  is  an  uncompromising  pride  in 


A  Japanese 

on  the  Poet 

Rossetti 


99 


Through        j^s  art  anc|  t^e  mysterious  dash  into  a  world 
Torii  where  only  a  strange  intellect  knows  how  to 

enjoy  the  material  warmth  and  human  softness. 
It  is  perfectly  outrageous  to  call  him  a  material- 
ist ;  he  made  himself  able,  through  the  very 
virtue  of  material,  to  enter  straightway  into  the 
heart  of  spirituality ;  it  is  more  proper  to  say 
that  he  alone  found  the  right  meeting  ground  of 
spirit  and  material.  He  never  could  think  any- 
thing spiritual  apart  from  form  and  colour ;  the 
form  and  colour  were  divine  themselves  in  his 
thought.  They  were  at  once  the  symbol  of 
what  they  represented  in  spirit;  he  could  not 
think  of  them  merely  as  form  and  colour.  He 
was,  in  that  respect,  quite  Oriental. 

If  he  had  one  great  fault  as  a  poet,  it  was 
that  he  always  knew,  too  well  indeed,  what  he 
.  was  going  to  write ;  he  could  never  forget 
himself.  I  do  not  think  it  was  from  his  over- 
consciousness  of  his  critical  power ;  it  may  be 
that  he  could  not  become  so  bold  to  trust  only 
in  his  impulse,  or  that  his  own  art,  he  thought, 
was  not  a  thing  to  play  with,  but  to  respect  with 
all  his  heart.  His  intellect  was  too  noble  to 
forget  the  imagination ;  what  appeared  quite 


logical   and   critical  in  his  emotion  is  not  the    A  JaPanese 

,  „  on  the  Poet 

real  part  at  all.  Rossetti 

I  have  been  for  many  months  now  studying 
with  my  students  in  college  on  Rossetti,  starting 
with  his  lyrics  and  almost  finishing  his  sonnets. 
I  found  that  it  was  more  easy  in  truth  for  them 
to  understand  him  (appreciate  too),  striking 
enough  to  say  perhaps,  than  even  Longfellow 
of  homespun  simplicity.  It  may  be  from  the 
reason  that  they  are  too  old  to  be  content  witb 
him  at  an  imaginary  fireside,  or  they  are  too 
young  yet  to  really  appreciate  him  as  they  are 
in  the  age  when  spiritual  speculation  is  more 
attractive.  I  think  that  the  acclimatisation 
of  Western  art  and  literature  of  the  modern 
type  which  has  been  encouraged  here,  though 
not  generally,  but  among  the  discerning  class, 
made  them  feel  akin  to  Rossetti  already,  even 
before  studying  him.  And  the  fact  that  he 
had  a  limitation,  which  was  of  an  Eastern  kind, 
was  doubtless  a  large  reason  of  this  immediate 
reception ;  as  he  never  tried  to  conceal  his 
limitation,  it  always  appeared  prominently,  but, 
on  the  other  hand,  to  delight  some  people  (and 
us)  immensely,  He  is  the  poet  whom  we  can 


Through  on|y    ]ove    Qr    jiate  .    an(j    we    are    gjaj  we  Jove 

Torii  him.     It  is  perfectly  singular  to   say  that  you 

can  at  once  understand  all  his  work,  as  if  a 
single  piece  of  poem,  when  you  have  once 
found  how  his  energy  worked,  what  associa- 
tion he  sought  for  evoking  emotion ;  and  you 
will  find  in  him  rarely  a  surprise  when  the 
sound,  colour,  and  form  have  become  in  mutual 
relation  with  you ;  in  fact,  you  will  get  from 
him  what  you  expect.  From  such  a  point  of 
view,  he  is  never  a  great  poet. 

However,  his  attitude  as  a  poet  is  most 
admirable ;  and  I  should  say  it  is  not  a  question 
with  us  whether  he  was  a  small  poet  or  a  big 
one.  Indeed,  his  attitude  makes  us  respect  and 
think  of  him  perhaps  more  than  he  was  in 
fact ;  what  he  lacked  we  will  fill  at  once  with 
imagination,  and  when  he  is  too  perfect  our 
imagination  will  make  him  imperfect  to  advan- 
tage, taking  its  usual  free  course,  and  let  us  fee 
his  fresh  beauty ;  thus  he  is  a  gainer  in  either 
case.  It  goes  without  saying  that  he  was 
democratic  on  the  one  hand ;  we  see  only  that 
cosmopolitan  side  of  beauty  and  emotion,  and 
allow  ourselves  to  speculate  and  connect  with 


him  a  dear  friendship.      He  is  one  whom  we    A  Japanese 

t*ie  P°et 
Rossetti 


,  f    ,  i        j  •  •          i-  on 

always  nnd  to  approach  and  interesting  to  listen 


to  ;  while  listening,  we  grow  very  enthusiastic, 
and  are  extremely  glad  thinking  that  he  wrote 
most  beautifully  what  we  often  thought  and 
could  not  find  a  voice  for. 


103 


Through  A  JAPANESE  ON  WHISTLER 

the 
Torii 

IT  is  not  only  the  Oiiental  conception  to  say 

that  "  yes  "  and  "  no  "  are,  after  all,  the  same 
thing ;  I  often  find  such  an  assurance  in  the 
matter  of  art  Whistler,  for  instance.  His 
art  of  "  curious  carving  of  nature  and  life  "  had 
been  recognised  from  the  beginning  in  England 
by  the  stronger  word  of  flat  denial ;  Ruskin 
was  the  greatest  of  his  admirers.  Whistler 
was  clever  almost  to  a  fauit,  and  cleverness  in 
art  as  well  as  in  literature  was  comparatively  a 
new  thing  in  England.  When  I  say  he  was 
clever,  I  mean  it  in  the  sense  our  Hokusai  was 
clever.  His  impressionism — Oh !  what  an 
arbitrary  word ! — was  something  of  Hiroshige's ; 
and  again,  his  gracefulness  might  belong  to 
Utamaro.  I  do  never  mean  he  was  influenced 
by  the  Japanese  artists — no,  no ;  I  do  not  mean 
it  at  all.  I  feel  only  glad  to  know  that  the 
best  art  always  comes  from  Nowhere,  and 
never  carries  a  particular  badge  of  East  or 
W7est ;  it  is  a  bit  of  Japanese  vanity  when  we 
write  Whistler  down  in  parallel  with  our  artists. 
As  the  question  yet  remains  (perhaps  for  ever) 


to  fix  the  final  place  for  the  colour-pnnt  artists    A  JaPanese 

11  •  on 

in  our   art,    we   have  the   same   question,   we        whistler 

believe,  on  Whistler ;  and  as  we  find  many 
reasons  to  deny  the  title  of  greatness  to  the 
former,  the  latter,  too,  may  not  have  been 
great.  I  know  how  charmed,  and  again 
bewildered,  we  are  when  we  are  alone  with 
his  work  face  to  face,  and  we  think  him  almost 
great ;  but  we  cannot  help  perceiving  his 
smallness  when  we  see  his  work  side  by  side 
with  the  work  of  some  greater  artists.  There 
is  an  artist  who  suddenly  gains  from  being 
compared ;  Whistler,  however,  is  rather  sad  in 
comparison.  So  it  is  with  our  artists  of  the 
Ukiyoye  school — for  instance,  compare  Hoku- 
sai  (that  magician  of  line  and  design)  with 
Sesshu,  or  even  Okyo.  I  am  told  that  Whistler's 
small  physique — he  hardly  weighed  more  than 
1  301b. — was  never  noticed  when  he  was  alone ; 
I  think  it  was  so  with  his  art.  I  agree  with 
Mr.  George  Moore,  who  said  that  Whistler 
might  have  been  a  greater  artist  if  he  had  been 
bigger  in  physique ;  Mr.  Moore  says  often 
clever  things.  t  To  say  he  was  small  I  do  no 
mean  to  undervalue  him  :  in  fact,  smallness  or 
105 


Through        greatness  has  not  much  meaning.     His  being 
Torii  over-fastidious     cannot     be     overlooked ;     his 

perfection  in  unfmishedness  mostly  betrays  his 
temperament ;  he  was  one  of  the  most  studied 
artists.  If  it  appeared  his  work  was  always 
done  from  inspiration,  it  is  only  that  he  proved 
the  work  which  he  executed  at  the  odd 
moment,  as  we  might  say,  when  he  least 
expected  it.  The  remarkable  part  is  that  he 
was  always  ready  for  that  moment ;  what 
energy,  what  persistence  he  had  to  grasp  it ! 

I  am  told  of  his  habitual  indifference  to  time 
and  place ;  not  only  in  his  personal  action,  also 
he  made  his  dream  of  colour  and  rhythm  at 
once  soar  out  of  them.  He  never  copied 
Nature  or  eternity ;  what  he  represented  on 
canvas  was  the  very  Nature  and  eternity 
themselves  ;  it  was  va  sad  accident  to  let  his 
picture  bear  a  particular  name  of  a  place. 
While  it  does  not  look  like  the  reality  you  and 
I  think  we  see  perhaps  in  Nature,  it  shows  a 
a  sweeping  ghostliness  ageless  and  eternal. 
It  is  most .  interesting  to  read  what  he  said 
before  the  Judge  at  the  time  of  the  Ruskin- 
Whistler  case.  He  remarked  : — "  If  it  were 

106 


called  a  view  of  Cremome,  it  would  certainly  A  JaPai«se 
bring  about  nothing  but  disappointment  on  the  whistler 
part  of  the  beholders.  It  is  an  artistic  arrange- 
ment." Again,  he  said : — "  To  some  it  may 
represent  all  that  is  intended,  to  others  it  may 
represent  nothing."  That  is  the  real  point  of 
his  art.  A  desire  and  composition  are  merely 
a  human  creation  that  great  Nature  never 
thought  of ;  as  Nature  never  tells  you  where  it 
was  begun,  how  it  was  ended,  what  its  idea 
and  what  its  intention,  so  Whistler  thought  his 
pictures  should  be.  It  is  perfectly  clear  to  see 
why  he  was  called  a  conceited  and  wilful 
impostor ;  but  the  abusers  only  exposed  at  the 
best  their  own  knowledge,  which  is  a  lost  thing 
in  Art.  What  Whistler  aimed  at  was  imagina- 
tion and  impulse. 

No  artist  when  he  is  great  can  separate  his 
personality  from  his  work ;  as  Whistler's  per- 
sonality was  unique,  whether  it  was  after  study  or 
not,  so  his  art  was;  and  we  all  see  his  personality 
behind  his  work.  If  you  only  see  the  surprise, 
mystification,  confusion,  and  confounding  in  his 
art,  I  do  not  think  you  see  the  real  Whistler  at 
alL  It  appears,  at  the  first  glance,  that  he  was 


107 


rhrough        always  playing  with  his  art  and  also  with  his 
Torii  friends,  and  he  was  so  witty  and  combative ; 

but  he  was  at  his  heart  of  hearts  most  sincere 
and  sad,  again  like  our  Hokusai.  His  strange 
aloofness  in  his  art  as  well  as  in  his  personality 
may  have  been  rooted  in  his  Puritan  blood  ; 
and  his  Puritanism  was  touched  by  the  modem 
cynicism  and  alternately  by  the  attractive  cosmo- 
politanism ;  therefore  he  was  both  severe  and 
delicate.  I  do  not  find  a  particular  reason 
to  call  him  eccentric,  if  not  in  the  fact  that  he 
was  proud  in  art,  uncompromising  in  intention, 
eager  in  aim.  If  so,  he  was  the  most  eccentric 
artist  that  ever  lived. 

As  there  are  not  two  Hogarths,  two 
Velazquez,  there  will  be  no  other  Whistler  in 
the  future ;  just  one  Whistler  is  indeed  enough. 
He  was  his  own  rule  to  himself,  not  belonging 
to  any  school  already  in  existence ;  the  school 
which  he  established  at  once  was  extinguished 
with  his  death  ;  that  was  good.  I  know  that 
a  great  art  of  the  world  is  a  creation  of  prayer, 
and  the  great  artist  is  always  a  sort  of  priest. 
But  where  Whistler  lacked  the  sober  reverence 
towards  Nature  and  Life,  he  gained,  on  the 

ioS 


other  hand,  a  touch  of  democracy ;  it  was  he  A 
who  brought  art  down  to  noble  artisanship.  Whistler 
And  his  democracy  of  art  was  saved  from 
vulgarity  by  his  Puritanic  aloofness.  It  is  too 
common  to  say  that  his  art  was  a  work  of  love  ; 
but  with  Whistler  it  was  a  true  case.  What- 
ever the  people  happened  to  say,  he  was  the 
most  enthusiastic  admirer  of  his  own  work ; 
where  is  any  more  strong  supporter  ?  And 
where  is  the  other  artist  who  adored  his  work 
of  creation  as  he  did  ?  I  think  that  it  does 
little  justice  to  call  him  a  colourist.  We  have 
many  Oriental  artists  who  never  use  any  other 
colour  but  black  and  grey ;  yet  we  call  them 
true  colourists.  One  must  see  beyond  the 
colour  itself,  and  feel  the  inner  voice  of 
symphony.  The  colour,  I  think,  was  for 
Whistler  only  a  means  to  make  his  picture  sing 
a  living  song ;  from  such  a  sense,  he  was  a 
great  colourist.  Indeed,  he  was.  And  it  is 
almost  foolish  to  attempt  to  examine  the  truth 
or  reality  of  the  colour  on  his  canvas ;  though 
it  may  not  be  a  true  colour  to  you,  surely  it  is 
a  poetry  or  song,  which  you  cannot  deny. 


109 


Through          A  JAPANESE  NOTE  ON  YEATS 

the 
Torii 

WE  two  Japanese   went   very  well  with   the 

three  Irish  at  a  little  cafe  off  Tottenham  Court 
Road  seven  or  eight  years  ago,  although  the 
balance  often  slanted  as  two  of  our  foreign 
friends  were  ladies  who,  like  Yeats'  faeries, 
would  ride  upon  the  winds  and  tide  and  dance 
upon  the  mountain  like  a  flame;  they  were 
wild,  I  remember  well,  over  Yeats  whose  poetry 
was  as  in  his  own  words  : 

"  .     .     .  ever  pacing  on  the  verge  of  things, 
The  phantom  beauty  in  a  mist  of  tears." 

One  of  the  ladies  sang,  or  to  say  better, 
chanted  "  The  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,"  as  she 
noticed  that  my  mind  did  not  match  their  enthu- 
siasm ;  was  it  not,  I  wonder,  her  Irish  tactics 
to  make  me  a  captive  from  a  sudden  awaken- 
ing of  home  thought  in  my  heart?  When  I 
made  an  unconditional  surrender  to  Yeats  at 
least  in  that  song  to  the  delight  of  all  my  Irish 
friends,  I  was  hearing  only  a  famous  Japanese 
"  lake  water  lapping  with  low  sounds  by  the 
shore  "  ;  I  can  still  recall  my  feeling  of  hearing 


it  in  my  heart's  deep  core,  while  I  hurried  to  my    A  JaPanese 
lodging  late  on  that  unforgettable  night.     And  Yeats 

when  I  became  better  composed  under  the 
sympathetic  light  in  my  room,  my  mind  like  a 
ship  on  the  waves  deathless  and  timeless  or 
freeborn  leaves  enraptured  in  the  quiet  of  the 
skies,  drifted  slowly  into  the  adventure  of  com- 
parison-making between  the  literatures  Oriental 
and  Irish ;  Yeats'  song  on  Innisfree  made  me  at 
once  think  of  T'ao  Yuan-ming  of  the  Tsin 
Dynasty  of  China  (A.D.  365-427)  whose 
famous  ode,  "  Homeward  Return"  sounds  in  my 
opinion  more  Celtic  than  any  other  old  Chinese 
poem.  Celtic  temperament  in  ancient  China, 
you  ask  ?  Oh,  yes,  a  good  deal  of  it.  Not 
only  the  Saxons,  but  also  the  old  Chinese,  did 
indeed  evoke  poetry  through  the  Celtic  flames 
blown  by  the  dove-gray  wind,  no  matter  where 
the  Chinese  got  it ;  there  is  nothing  strange  to 
compare  the  ancient  Oriental  poetry  with  Yeats 
of  the  present  time,  because  both  of  them  are 
of  the  language  very  old  and  very  new  like  the 
lonely  face  of  a  dream.  I  might  say  it  was 
Yuan-ming's  weakness  that  he  was  only  able  to 
find  poetry  in  the  emphasising  of  his  own  life, 
in 


Through        unlike  Yeats  and  his  Irish  colleagues  to  whom 
Torii  Art  or  Imagination  in  another  word  was  first, 

and  Life  followed  after ;  "  Homeward  Return" 
would  not  have  existed,  I  think,  if  Yuan-ming 
had  not  been  obliged  to  appear  in  the  regular 
robe  proper  to  his  rank  of  magistrate  at  a  certain 
function,  only  to  make  his  freedom-loving  soul 
rebel  and  exclaim  that  "  he  could  not  crook  the 
hinges  of  his  back  for  five  pecks  of  rice  a  day," 
and  to  resign  his  office  at  once  after  holding  the 
post  for  only  eighty-three  days.  Not  only  do 
I  read  in  his  resignation  his  misery  of  heart  on 
seeing  the  speedy  fall  of  his  Tsin  Dynasty  and 
the  gradual  rise  of  the  Liu  Sung,  but  I  see 
in  his  ode  that  he  was  after  all  a  Chinese  pess- 
imist and  not  a  Celt,  whose  pessimism  always 
makes  a  desperate  revolt  under  the  peace  and 
content,  whose  surrender  to  Nature  is  more  to 
her  fact  itself  than  the  mystery  she  inspires, 
when  he  finishes  the  famous  ode  as  follows  : 

"  I  will  whistle  along  the  eastern  hill, 
By  the  clear  rivulet  weave  my  song : 
Let  my  allotted  span  work  its  own  way  at  will. 
I  will  enjoy  my  fate  .  .  .  Oh,  how  can  I  doubt  it  ?  " 

My  responsiveness  to  the  modern  Irish  litera- 


ture  chiefly  through  Yeats  and  two  or  three    A  Japanese 
others,  the  singers  of  the  Unseen  and  Passionate  Yeats 

Dreams,  is  from  the  sudden  awakening  of  Celtic 
temperament  in  my  Japanese  mind.  The  com- 
parative study  of  the  Japanese  poetical  character- 
istics with  those  of  the  Irish  people  would  be 
interesting,  because  it  will  make  it  clear  how 
the  spontaneity  of  the  real  Japanese  hearts  and 
imaginations,  indeed  quite  Celtic,  has  been 
evoked  and  crooked  and  even  ruined  by  the 
Chinese  literature  of  the  Toang  and  Sung 
dynasties  sadly  hardened  by  the  moral  finiteness, 
and  also  by  the  Buddhism  whose  despotic 
counsel  often  discouraged  imagination,  till  we 
see  to-day  only  the  fragmentary  remains,  for 
instance,  in  the  folk-songs  which  flow  like  a 
streaming  flame  upon  the  air.  I  know  that  all 
the  Japanese  poets  ancient  and  modern  went 
into  a  Celtic  invocation,  when  they  were  alone 
with  the  sad  melody  of  Nature  and  felt  the 
intimacy  of  human  destiny ;  take  Saigyo  at 
random,  the  wandering  priest-poet  of  the  early 
twelfth  century,  whose  melancholy  cry  across 
the  seas  and  time  is  most  real,  because,  to  use 
Matthew  Arnold's  phrase,  of  its  "passionate, 


113 


Through        turbulent,  indomitable  reaction  against  the  des- 

the 

Torii 


potism  of  fact."     Here  is  one  of  my  beloved 


uta-poems  of  his  which  it  is  said  he  wrote  at  a 
certain  shrine : 

"  Know  I  not  at  all  who  is  within, 
But  from  the  heart  of  gratitude, 
My  tears  fall, 
Again  my  tears  fall,  ..." 

Although  it  may  sound  strange,  it  is  true 
that  Saigyo  failed  as  a  poet,  in  my  opinion, 
through  his  hatred  of  life  and  the  world  (how 
many  hundred  Western  poets  fail  through  their 
love  of  the  World  and  Life),  because  not  from 
impulse  and  dream  like  Yeats,  but  I  might  say 
from  the  Buddhistic  superstition  and  motive  he 
looked  upon  the  whisper  and  beauty  far  beyond 
time  and  winds.  It  was  the  Chinese  classics 
and  Buddhism  that  weakened  our  Japanese 
poetry  in  most  cases ;  it  is  not  difficult  to  see 
what  we  shall  lose  fundamentally  from  coming, 
as  we  have  come  to-day,  face  to  face  with  the 
Western  literature.  When  I  admire  the  Irish 
literature  as  I  do,  it  is  in  its  independent  aloof- 
ness from  the  others,  sad  but  pleasing  like  an 
elegy  heard  across  the  seas  of  the  infinite,  with 

"4 


all  the  joys  pointing  to  life  that  always  glistens    A  JaPanese 

.11  r    1  .     .         ii.          ,     .  .  Note  on 

with  the  pain  or  destiny ;  in  its  telling  or  visions  Yeats 

and  numberless  dreams,  I  see  the  passionate 
flame  burning  to  Eternity  and  deathlessness,  its 
wit  and  humour  (Oh,  that  famous  Irish 
characteristic)  make  me  think  that  laughter  or 
smile  is  certainly  older,  at  least  wiser  than  tears. 
How  often  I  wonder  at  its  insular  energy 
objecting  to  the  literary  encroachment  of  a 
different  element,  oh,  what  a  pure,  proud, 
lonely,  defiant  spirit !  I  know  that  such  a 
literary  strength  was  gained  perhaps  at  the 
heavy  cost  of  the  political  sacrifice  of  the 
country  ;  is  it  a  piece  of  cynicism  when  we 
thank  the  English  solidarity  which  had  a  great 
hand  in  the  formation  of  the  so-called  Irish 
literature  ? 

It  was,  I  confess,  the  very  beauty  of  Yeats* 
work  of  poetry,  "  The  Rose  "  with  that  song 
on  the  "  Lake  Isle  of  Innisfree,"  "  The  Wind 
Among  the  Reeds  "  with  the  simple  fiddler  of 
Dooney  who  set  the  people  to  "  dance  like  a 
wave  of  the  sea,"  that  I  wholly  gave  up,  some 
eight  years  ago  when  I  was  in  London,  my 
plan  to  go  to  Ireland  for  my  study  of  the  Celtic 

"5 


Through        characteristics,  because  William  B.  Yeats  was, 
Torii  I    thought,    bigger    than    Ireland    herself,    and 

what  I  was  afraid  of  was  the  disillusionment ; 
it  was  not  the  immediate  question  with  me  to 
know  how  much  Celtic  would  be  left  if  Yeats 
were  taken  out  from  his  poetry.  I  read  some- 
where his  words  of  discontent  with  his  early 
poems  as  triviality  or  sentimentality  ;  I  have  my 
opinion  to  feel  only  sorry  for  a  poet  who  was 
sane  and  wise  from  the  beginning.  The  time 
when  one  could  act  even  silly  would  be  doubly 
dear  in  one's  after-reflection ;  Yeats'  word  of 
discontent  may  not  be  the  exact  word ;  what 
a  pity  even  the  poet,  particularly  when  he  is 
Irish,  has  had  an  occasion  or  two  to  play  that 
sad  art  of  criticism  upon  his  own  work.  I  see 
the  sorrow  at  once  universal,  with  no  particular 
shape,  commingled  with  the  whisper  and  sigh 
of  days  and  nature  in  quite  a  picturesque 
accentuation,  in  his  early  work,  as  if  in  my 
poetry  of  youth,  at  the  moment  when  he  might 
have  thought,  again  as  in  my  case,  it  was  a 
spiritual  flight  to  lose  his  own  nationality,  and 
that  the  imitation  in  the  best  sense  or  the 
joining  to  one  indomitable  general  aiood  of 

116 


youth  was  a  poetical  passport ;  it  is  excusable,     A  JaPanese 
I  dare  say,  when  we  find  his  head  in  a  cloud-  Yeats 

hand  in  many  pieces  of  "  The  Rose,"  where 
he  bartered  his  emotion  for  the  intellect.  I  am 
glad  to  hear  that  he  returned  lately  to  the 
common  thought  of  his  people ;  it  may  be  a 
gratification  for  his  Irish  patriotism  if  it  served 
to  remind  him  of  Mangan  and  Davis.  That 
patriotism  is  another  link  between  the  Irish  and 
the  Japanese.  It  was  from  the  very  sense  of 
patriotism,  in  truth,  that  "  Kathleen  Ni  Hooli- 
han  "  was  thought  to  be  actable  even  in  Japan  ; 
but  when  it  failed,  it  was  from  its  general 
symbolism,  because  we  Japanese  are  able  to 
think  of  patriotism  only  physically. 


117 


Through  OSCAR  WILDE 

the 
Torii 

LET  me  say  that  it  was  Wilde  himself  who 
misunderstood  him  before  the  large  world  was 
pleased  to  misunderstand  him ;  he  who  found 
joy  in  his  artistic  self-deception,  that  is  in  the 
creation  of  a  false  self  that  would  pass  as  the 
real  self,  had  at  last  to  cry  over  fate  when  from 
the  realization  of  his  being  a  social  outcast  he 
exclaimed  :  "  If  after  I  am  free  a  friend  of  mine 
gave  a  feast  and  did  not  invite  me  to  it,  I  should 
not  mind  a  bit.  I  can  be  perfectly  happy  by 
myself.  With  freedom,  flowers,  books  and  the 
moon,  who  could  not  be  perfectly  happy  ?  " 
Indeed  the  rime  when  he  found  that  the  real 
self  is  alone  worthy  and  kind  came  to  him  too 
late. 

I  always  thought  that  he  was  a  moralist  (who 
among  the  English  authors,  I  should  like  to 
know,  is  not  a  moralist  ?),  even  a  great  moralist, 
from  the  reason  that,  like  a  pretty  woman  who 
always  conceals  her  thoughts  most  beloved,  he 
tried,  often  even  with  literary  desperation,  to 
hide  the  fact  of  his  being  a  moralist ;  and  he 
was  very  brilliant  and  quite  distinguished  par- 

118 


ticularly  in  the  places  where  he  was   greatly  °scar 

i        i  i     i  •        ir  •  i  i-       i  Wilde 

suspected.     He  himself  was  sometime?  obliged 

to  confess  it,  when  he  was  maddened  and  ex- 
cited in  his  most  eventful  literary  life,  as  I  see, 
for  instance,  in  his  Letters  on  Dorian  Gray 
addressed  to  the  editor  of  the  St.  James'  Gazette 
or  Somebody  ;  and  1  will  call  "  De  Profundis  " 
one  of  the  greatest  books  of  morality  the  modern 
age  has  produced.  If  a  hypocrite  were  to 
conceal  his  true  character  rather  than  to  claim 
something  he  has  not,  wilde  is  in  truth  the  first 
person  to  be  entitled  a  literary  hypocrite. 
There  is  a  long  history  of  hypocricy  in  England, 
that  is  more  or  less  the  history  of  English 
society  artificially  created,  not  naturally  grown ; 
when  I  make  him  represent  the  worst  side,  my 
mind  dwells  on  his  lack  of  sincerity  at  least 
in  his  early  days.  Although  his  cleverness  was 
quite  significant,  it  seems  that  he  was  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  his  way  of  concealing  was  after 
all  the  way  of  revealing ;  and  the  literary 
tricks  or  devices  he  played  on  us  (and  he 
was  playing  them  on  himself)  are,  to  say  the 
least,  the  most  shabby  part.  When  he  talked 
on  art  and  beauty,  he  was  rather  vague  and 


Through        always  too  talkative ;  and  when  he  talked  on 
Torii  himself,  no  greater  bore  than  he  could  be  found 

in  all  literature  West  or  East.  In  a  word  he  is 
often  unbearable  to  our  Japanese  mind.  I 
think  it  is  safe  to  say  from  the  Japanese  view- 
point that  the  real  artist  and  true  aesthete  will 
never  talk  so  much  about  his  art  and  aethet- 
icism  ;  although  he  meant  to  bring  the  creative 
possibility  of  general  men  of  letters  to  a  higher 
plane  by  sheer  force  of  cleverness,  his  unavail- 
ing service  proved  that  not  cleverness  in  any 
form,  but  the  magic  of  humanity  and  love  itself 
alone  have  such  a  power.  We  have  a 
Japanese  word  kusai  which,  though  it  is  too 
commonplace  a  word,  will  be  used  of  art  or 
writing ;  kiLsai  means  "  It  smells  too  strong." 
Indeed  Wilde's  work,  whether  good  or  bad, 
altogether  smells  too  strong  perhaps  through  his 
lack  of  reflective  modesty  or  through  having 
too  much  audacity ;  and  let  me  say  that  he 
often  smelled  bad ;  that  is  why  I  failed  to 
make  my  Japanese  mind  interested  in  him  be- 
fore. I  read  somewhere  in  "  De  Profundis  "  : 
"  The  gods  had  given  me  almost  everything. 
I  had  genius,  a  distinguished  name,  high  social 

120 


position,  brilliancy,  intellectual  daring  ;  I  made  Oscar 

...          ,  11-1          i  Wilde 

art   a   philosophy,   and    philosophy  an  art :   1 

altered  the  minds  of  men  and  the  colour  of 
things  :  there  was  nothing  I  said  or  did  that 
did  not  make  people  wonder." — Why,  such  is 
the  language  of  youthful  vulgarity.  I  admit  his 
words  that  he  created  a  new  literature  ;  but 
what  he  appears  to  have  created  in  letters  will 
be  found  at  once  to  be  nothing  but  the  old 
truth  or  wisdom  or  beauty  newly  spoken. 
"  And  for  the  rest,"  I  shall  exclaim,  "  never 
would  I  care."  His  way  of  saying  was  in  fact 
quite  creditable ;  but  when  I  think  what  a  bad 
influence  he  had  and  is  still  having  on  younger 
tired  brains  by  his  acrobatic  superficiality,  I 
more  blame  and  deny  him  than  praise  and 
accept  him. 

However,  I  am  happy  to  see  that  his  vogue 
is  spreading  its  wide  wings  even  in  this  far- 
away Japan  ;  what  I  like  to  dwell  on  is  that 
the  English  society,  not  only  the  English  reading 
public,  seems  to  have  finally  realized  what  it 
inflicted  on  him,  and  looks  as  if,  though  rather 
late,  it  wished  to  atone.  Wilde  says  in  a 
certain  part  of  "  De  Profundis":  "I  can  claim 

121 


Through        on  my  sjje  t}iat  ft  j  rea]ize  what  I  have  suffered, 
Torii  society  should  realize  what  it  has  inflicted  on 

me ;  and  that  there  should  be  no  bitterness  or 
hate  on  either  side."  I  take  it  as  his  femininity 
when  he  said  he  had  no  hatred  for  society 
and  really  meant  the  reverse ;  and  again  as  his 
hatred  was  not  small,  he  wished  to  forget  all 
about  it.  I  read  somewhere,  although  I  for- 
get just  where,  he  said  that  the  world  will 
only  remember  you  by  what  you  did  last ;  is 
there  any  greater  sarcasm  than  that  ?  It  was 
his  femininity  that  made  him  reveal  his  strength 
of  suffering  in  his  last  days ;  again  like  a 
woman,  he  was  born  a  spectator  till  suddenly 
he  found  himself  to  be  an  actor  taking  a 
shameful  tragic  role.  In  calling  woman  para- 
doxical I  mean  that  Wilde  was  paradoxical. 
He  who  began  his  life  with  no  real  knowledge 
of  the  world  and  life,  died  as  the  master  of 
it  under  the  baptism  of  sorrow.  Sorrow  and 
humanity,  both  of  them,  are  feminine ;  I  think 
it  is  not  necessary  to  prove  with  examples 
that  "De  Profundis"  is  a  great  feminine  cry. 
I  cannot  be  so  heartless  as  to  criticize  it  as 
mere  literature. 


I  often  reflect  upon  the   matter  of  Wilde  s  Oscar 

i         j     .,  .  Wilde 

imprisonment,  and  wonder  it  it  was  not  also  the 

kindness  of  Great  Nature  to  teach  him  the 
lesson  of  humanity ;  however,  I  cannot  help 
feeling  she  was  rather  cruel  when  he  was  forced 
to  learn  it  through  Humility.  He  says  :  "As 
I  found  it,  I  want  to  keep  it.  I  must  do  so. 
It  is  the  one  thing  that  has  in  it  the  elements  of 
life,  of  a  new  life,  a  Vita  Nuova  for  me." 
And  he  declares :  "And  the  first  thing  that  I 
have  got  to  do  is  to  free  myself  from  any 
possible  bitterness  of  feeling  against  the  world." 
It  is  from  such  language  that  I  admit  even  the 
name  of  greatness  for  Wilde,  and  am  glad  to 
forget  the  greater  parts  of  stories,  plays,  poems 
and  essays  which  always  tired  me ;  it  is  true 
that,  if  he  had  been  the  man  who  understood 
life  and  humanity  as  he  did  in  the  later  dates, 
he  would  have  written  great  books  already  in 
his  younger  age ;  but,  as  I  said  before,  when 
he  soared  into  the  higher,  nobler  realization  of 
his  real  self,  his  mind  and  strength  had  gone 
too  far  down  and  were  too  crushed  for  actual 
rising.  Let  me  say  here  that  he  began  life  as 
an  artist  (to  use  his  beloved  word)  and  died, 


Through        g|ae|  to  sav>  as  a  manj  he  WJ1O  entered  into 
Torii  prison  as  a  mere  litterateur  left  there  as  a  Life. 

No  doubt  he  suffered  in  prison  more  and 
deeper  than  we  Japanese  fancy  ;  if  he  had  been 
a  Japanese  to  whom  visible  beauty  of  Nature 
and  life  are  not  so  attractive,  he  would  have 
found  at  once  the  edifice  of  sanctuary  undis- 
turbed and  serene  under  whose  blessing  his 
thoughts  would  have  entered  into  philosophy 
and  song  ;  but  he  was  far  more  physical  indeed. 
How  he  suffered,  I  can  well  imagine,  before  he 
got  his  spiritual  triumph.  When  I  say  that  he 
was  as  a  playwright,  far  below,  for  instance, 
Bernard  Shaw,  I  am  thinking  of  the  fact  that 
he  was  unable,  at  least  before  he  was  put  in 
prison,  to  see  the  world  and  life  with  the  naked 
eyes  of  man  real  and  true ;  are  there  not,  as 
some  critic  pleases  to  point  out,  places  where 
he  seems  to  use  again  his  old  silly  trick  of 
making  a  literature  from  his  own  misfortune  or 
casuality  or  tragedy  even  in  "  De  Profundis  "  ? 
And  again  as  an  essayist,  I  should  say  that 
Chesterton  is  not  inferior  to  Wilde;  that  the 
former,  unlike  the  latter,  has  no  particular 
aesthetic  pretension  pleases  me  immensely.  As 
124 


you  know,  paradox-making  as  only  a  sport  or 
game  quite  harmless.  It  is  not  necessary  to  go 
into  any  long  discussion  of  Wilde's  merit  as  a 
poet  or  novelist.  There  is  no  denying  that  he 
was  one  of  the  most  unique  figures  of  the 
modern  age ;  and  his  being  an  English  writer 
of  third  rate  makes  us  at  once  intimate  and 
familiar,  as  we  are  only  third  rate  human  beings 
at  our  best. 


125 


Through          WHAT  IS  THE  HOKKU  POEM  ? 

the 
Torii 

PARTLY  to  make  my  annual  settlement  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  at  least  my  spiritual  settlement, 
one  month  later,  as  the  villagers  are  still  attached 
to  the  old  lunar  calendar,  mainly  to  hunt  after 
the  plum-blossoms  (why,  hunting  is  the  proper 
word),  although  I  knew  it  was  only  a  few 
weeks  since  the  chrysanthemums  turned  to  dust, 
I  left  cold  Tokyo  in  December  towards  Atami 
where  the  glad  laughing  sunlight  of  Spring 
always  arrives  first  across  the  seas.  You  may 
call  me  mad  or  fantastic  if  you  will,  when  I 
tell  you  that  1  journeyed  one  hundred  miles  for 
just  an  early  sight  of  the  flowers  ;  that  early 
sight  indeed  makes  my  ephemeral  life  worth 
living.  I  was  glad,  when  I  reached  Atami,  to 
find  that  my  flower  exploration  was  started 
well,  though  even  at  Atami  the  season  was  a 
little  early  for  it ;  when  the  plum  trees  in  the 
well-known  "  Plum  Forest "  there,  a  week  or 
ten  days  later,  began  to  smile  up  to  the  skies 
and  sunlight  (and  to  me),  I  carried  my  world- 
wearied  soul  every  day  out  under  their  shade, 
and  talked  with  them  in  the  silence  that  was 
126 


beyond  the  world  and  humanity.     I  was  called,        What  is 

,          ,  i  r  •         i  i  ^e  ffokku 

when  I  was  almost  rorgettmg  human  speech,  Poem  ? 
back  to  Tokyo  again  to  pay  life's  toll,  where  1 
was  at  once  besieged  by  the  same  winter  cold  ; 
worse  than  that,  I  was  forced  to  settle  my 
yearly  account  from  which  1  had  attempted  to 
escape  some  twenty  days  before.  My  little 
adonis  davurica,  to  use  the  botanical  name,  or 
the  Fortune  Longevity  Grass  at  the  southern 
window  of  my  home  was  not  yet  in  bloom ;  I 
was  again  obliged  to  shut  myself  within  the 
room  with  a  little  brazier  on  whose  ashes  I 
could  write  and  rewrite  the  pages  from  the 
Songs  of  Innocence,  and  to  look  happy  travel- 
ling before  Fuji  Mountain's  presence  in  Hiro- 
shige's  pictures.  But  it  happend  one  morning 
when  1  was  washing  my  face  in  my  garden 
(oh,  where's  yester  year's  morning-glory  ?)  that 
the  very  first  note  of  a  nightingale  made  me 
raise  my  face  at  once  to  the  plum  tree  where 
two  or  three  blossoms  had  just  begun  to  break  ; 
"At  last,  Spring  even  to  Tokyo,"  I  exclaimed. 
1  made  a  habit  from  then  to  sit  on  the  balcony 
facing  the  garden  when  the  sunlight  fell  there 
with  all  heart  and  soul  and  to  count  the  blossoms 
127 


Through        every  day  ;  I  recall  here  to  my  mind  the  follow- 


Torii  in§  seventeen-syllable  hokku  poem  : 

"  One  blossom  of  the  plum- 
Yes,  as  much  as  that  one  blossom,  every  day, 
Have  we  of  Spring's  warmth." 

It  might  be  from  the  conditions  of  my  impaired 
health  of  late  that  such  a  little  peom  as  the 
above  makes  a  strong  impression  on  my  mind ; 
indeed,  I  never  felt  before  as  this  year,  the 
kindness  of  the  sunlight  and  the  joy  of  spring. 
I  declare  myself  to  be  an  adherent  of  this  hoklcu 
poem  in  whose  gem-small  form  of  utterance  our 
Japanese  poets  were  able  to  express  their  under- 
standing of  Nature,  better  than  that,  to  sing  or 
chant  their  longing  or  wonder  or  adoration  to- 
wards Mother  Nature ;  to  call  the  hokku  poem 
suggestive  is  almost  wrong,  although  it  has 
become  a  recent  fashion  for  the  Western  critics 
to  interpret,  not  only  this  hoklcu  but  all  Japanese 
poetry  (even  my  work  included)  by  that  one 
word,  because  the  hokku  poem  itself  is  distictly 
clear-cut  like  a  diamond  or  star,  never  mystified 
by  any  cloud  or  mist  like  Truth  or  Beauty  of 
Keats'  understanding.  It  is  all  very  well  if  you 
128 


have  a  suggestive  attitude  of  mind  in  reading  it ;         What is 
I  say  that  the  star  itself  has  almost  no  share  in  p0em  ? 

the  creation  of  a  condition  even  when  your 
dream  or  vision  is  gained  through  its  beauty. 
I  am  only  pleased  to  know  that  the  star  had 
such  an  influence  upon  you ;  and  I  am  willing 
to  endorse  you  when  you  say  the  hokku  poem 
is  suggestive  in  the  same  sense  that  truth  and 
humanity  are  suggestive.  But  I  can  say  myself 
as  a  poet  (am  I  too  bold  to  claim  that  word  ?) 
that  your  poem  would  certainly  end  in  artificial- 
ity if  you  start  out  to  be  suggestive  from  the 
beginning  ;  I  value  the  hokku  poem,  at  least 
some  of  them,  because  of  its  own  truth  and 
humanity  simple  and  plain.  Let  me  say  for 
once  and  all  there  is  no  word  in  so  common  use 
by  Western  critics  as  suggestive,  which  makes 
more  mischief  than  enlightenment,  although 
they  mean  it  quite  simply,  of  course,  to  be  a  new 
force  or  salvation ;  I  apologise  to  you  for  my 
digression  when  I  say  that  no  critic  is  neces- 
sary for  this  world  of  poetry.  Who  will 
criticise  Truth  or  Humanity  ?  I  always 
thought  that  the  most  beautiful  flowers  grow 
close  to  the  ground,  and  they  need  no  hundred 


129 


Through        petals   for  expressing  their  own  beauty ;  how 
Torii  can  you  call  it  real  poetry  if  you  cannot  tell  it 

by  a  few  words  ?  Therefore  these  seventeen 
syllables  are  just  enough  at  least  to  our  Japanese 
mind.  And  if  you  cannot  express  all  by  one 
hoklcu,  then  you  can  say  it  in  many  hokkus  ; 
yes,  that  is  all. 

I  confess  that  I  secretly  desired  to  become  a 
hokku  poet  in  my  younger  days,  that  is  now 
twenty  years  ago,  and  I  used  to  put  the  hokku 
collection  of  Basho  or  Buson  with  Spencer's 
Education  in  the  same  drawer  of  my  desk ;  what 
did  Spencer  mean,  you  might  wonder,  for  a  boy 
of  sixteen  or  seventeen?  I  myself  wonder 
to-day  about  it  when  I  look  back  on  it ;  but  it 
was  the  younger  day  of  new  Japan  when  even 
we  boys  thought  to  educate  others  before  being 
educated  ourselves  (there  was  Spencer's  Educa- 
tion), and  we  wished  to  swallow  all  the 
Western  wisdom  and  philosophy,  Spencei  or 
Darwin  or  what  else,  at  a  gulp.  I  used  to 
pass  through  Shiba  Park  famous  for  the  Sleep- 
ing Houses  of  the  Feudal  Princes  and  also  for 
the  pine  forest  towering  over  the  mortality  and 
age,  towards  my  school  at  Mita,  whither  to-day 

130 


of  twenty  years  later  I  turn  my  steps  again  to         What  is 

U,         T  ,  ,  _,      ..  .          the  Hokku 

the   Japanese  students  about  the  hnglish  poem? 

poets  born  in  the  golden  clime  or  other  clime  ; 
and  I  often  looked  up  with  irresistible  longing 
of  heart,  to  a  little  cottage  on  a  hill  in  this 
sacred  park  where  Yeiki  Kikakudo,  the  descend- 
ant of  the  famous  hokku  poet  Kikaku  in 
poetical  lineage,  used  to  live  in  his  seventieth 
year.  I  cannot  recollect  now  exactly  how  I 
happened  to  call  on  him  one  night  except  from 
my  impulse  and  determination  that  my  meeting 
with  him  was  thought  necessary  for  my  poetical 
development ;  it  was  the  night  of  meigetsu,  the 
full  moon  of  September,  when  many  wanderers 
like  myself,  moths  restless  after  soul's  sensation, 
could  be  seen  in  the  park  through  the  shadows 
of  trees.  The  little  house,  I  mean  that  of 
Master  Yeiki,  so  small  that  it  might  be  com- 
fortably put  in  any  ordinary-sized  Western 
drawing-room,  was  deadly  silent  with  no  light 
lighted ;  I  thought  at  once  that  it  was  the  poet's 
beautiful  consideration  towards  the  moon  whose 
heavenly  light,  not  being  disturbed  by  any 
earthly  lamp,  might  thus  have  full  sway.  I  met 
the  old  poet  sitting  on  the  step  under  the  golden 


Through        shower  of  the  light,  when  I  climbed  up  to  his 
Torii  house,  he  led  me  within  the  house  where  the 

all  open  shoji  doors  welcomed  the  moon  with 
old-fashioned  hospitality.  Indeed  that  should 
be  the  way  to  treat  the  celestial  guest ;  when 
you  observe  how  the  Japanese  moonlight 
crawls  in  with  its  fairy-like  golden  steps,  you 
will  wonder  how  humanised  it  is  here.  We 
two,  young  and  old,  sat  silent,  leaving  all  the 
talk  to  the  breezes  which  carried  down  the 
moon's  autumnal  message  ;  the  light  fell  on  the 
hanging  at  the  tolconoma  whereon  I  read  the 
following  hoklcu  poem : 

"  Autumn's  full  moon : 
Lo,  the  shadows  of  a  pine  tree 
Upon  the  mats  !  " 

Really  it  was  my  first  opportunity  to  observe 
the  full  beauty  of  the  light  and  shadow,  more 
the  beauty  of  the  shadow  in  fact  far  more 
luminous  than  the  light  itself,  with  such  a 
decorativeness,  particularly  when  it  stamped 
the  dustless  mats  as  a  dragon-shaped  ageless 
pine  tree ;  I  thanked  Kikaku,  the  author  of  the 
above  lines,  for  giving  me  just  the  point  where 

13* 


to  find  the  natural  beauty,  on  which  my  imagin-         What  is 

hiii  i  1  w     .  i        the  Hokku 

ould    have    play    enough.       1    bowed          poem? 

to  the  Poet  Yeiki  for  good-night,  and  thanked 
him  for  the  most  interesting  talk,  although  we 
had  spoken  scarcely  a  word,  but  I  was  perfectly 
tickled  in  delight  as  already  then  the  old  story 
of  Emerson  and  Carlyle  who  had  a  happy  chat 
in  silence  was  known  to  me.  When  I  left  him, 
the  moon  was  quite  high,  under  whose  golden 
blessing  all  the  trees  and  birds  hurried  to  dream ; 
it  was  exactly  such  a  night  on  which  only  two 
or  three  year  ago  1  wrote  the  following  lines : 

"  Across  the  song  of  night  and  moon, 
(O  perfume  of  perfumes ! ) 
My  soul,  as  a  wind 
Whose  heart's  too  full  to  sing, 
Only  roams  astray  ..." 

Indeed,  how  I  wandered  that  night,  now  think- 
ing of  this  poet,  then  on  that  holcku  poem ;  1 
clearly  remember  it  was  the  very  night  that  I 
felt  fully  the  beauty  of  the  following  impromptu 
in  holclcu  by  Basho  : 

«  Shall  I  knock 
At  Miidera  Temple's  gate  ? 
Ah,  moon  of  to-night  I " 

133 


Through        Suppose  you  stand  at  that  temple's  gate  high 
Torn  upon   the  hill    lapped   and    again   lapped    by 

the  slow  water,  with  your  dreamy  face  towards 
this  Lake  Biwa  in  the  shape  of  a  biwa-lute, 
which,  as  a  certain'poetess  has  written,  "  like  a 
shell  of  white  lies  dropped  by  the  passing  day." 
I  am  sure  you  will  feel  yourself  to  be  a  god  or 
goddess  in  the  beginning  of  the  world  as  in 
the  Japanese  mythology,  who  by  accident  or 
mystery  has  risen  above  the  opalescent  mists 
which  softly  cover  the  earth  of  later  night. 

I  did  not  forget  to  carry  with  me  the  hoklcu 
collection  of  Basho  or  Buson  or  some  other 
poet  in  my  American  life,  even  when  I  did  the 
so-called  tramp  life  in  1 896- 1 898  through  the 
California  field  full  of  buttercups,  by  the  moun- 
tain where  the  cypress  trees  beckoned  my  soul 
to  fly,  not  merely  because  the  thought  of  home 
and  longing  for  it  was  then  my  only  comfort, 
but  more  because  by  the  blessing  of  the  book,  I 
mean  the  hokku  book,  I  entered  straight  into 
the  great  heart  of  Nature ;  when  I  left  the 
Pacific  Slope  in  later  years  towards  the  Eastern 
cities  built  by  the  modern  civilisation  and 
machineries,  I  suddenly  thought  I  had  lost  the 

'34 


secret  understanding  of  the  hokku  poems  born         what  is 
in  Japan,  insignificant  like  a  lakeside  reed  and          Poem  ? 
irresponsible  like  a  dragon-fly  ;  how  could  you 
properly  understand,  for  instance,  the  following 
hokku  poem  in  New  York  of  skyscrapers  and 
automobiles  : 

"  A  cloud  of  flowers ! 
Is  it  the  bell  of  Uyeno 
Or  that  of  Asakusa  ?  ' 

The  poet,  by  the  way  Basho,  means  the  cloud 
of  flowers,  of  course,  in  Mukojima  of  Tokyo, 
whose  odorous  profusion  shuts  out  every  pros- 
pect and  thought  of  geographical  sense,  of 
East  or  West ;  listen  to  the  bell  ringing  from 
the  distance  !  Does  it  come  from  the  temple  of 
Uyeno  or  Asakusa  ?  Why,  it  is  the  poem  of 
a  Spring  picture  of  the  river  Sumida. 

Although  I  was  quite  loyal  to  this  seventeen 
syllable  form  of  Japanese  poetry  during  many 
years  of  my  foreign  wandering,  I  had  scarcely 
any  moment  to  write  a  hokku  in  original 
Japanese  or  English,  till  the  day  when  I  most 
abruptly  awoke  in  1 902  to  the  noise  of  Charing 
Cross  where  I  wrote  as  follows : 


Through  "  Tell  me  the  street  to  Heaven. 

the  This  ?     Or  that  ?     Oh,  which  ? 

Torii 

What  webs  of  streets  ! 

And  it  was  by  Westminster  Bridge  where  I 
heard  the  evening  chime  that  I  wrote  again  in 
hokku  which  appears,  when  translated,  as 
follows : 

"  Is  it,  Oh,  list ! 

The  great  voice  of  Judgement  Day  ? 
So  runs  Thames,  so  runs  my  Life." 

In  September  of  1 904,  I  returned  home  ;  the 
tender  silken  autumnal  rain  that  was  Japanese 
poetry,  and  my  elder  brother  welcomed  me 
(what  a  ghost  tired  and  pale  I  was  then),  and 
I  was  taken  to  his  house  in  the  Nihonbashi 
district  of  Tokyo  to  wash  off  my  foreign  dust 
and  slowly  renew  my  old  acquaintance  with 
things  Japanese  ;  Oh,  that  memorable  first  night 
after  thirteen  years  abroad  !  I  spent  it  alone  in 
the  upstairs  room  where  I  was  left  to  sleep.  I 
did  not  fall  asleep  for  many  many  hours  as  my 
back  already  began  to  ache  from  lying  on  the 
floor  in  the  Japanese  fashion  ;  and  my  nostrils 
could  not  make  themselves  free  from  a  strange 
136 


Japanese  smell,  indeed  the  soy  smell,  which  I         What  is 

,.  the  Hokku 

thought   was   crawling  rrom  the  kitchen.      As  p0em? 

I  said,  the  rain  dropped  quite  incessantly  ;  the 
lamplight  burned  feebly ;  and  I  was  alone. 
Listen  !  What  was  that  I  heard  ?  Well,  it 
was  a  cricket  singing  under  the  roof  or  behind 
the  hanging  at  the  tolconoma.  I  exclaimed 
then  :  "  Was  it  possible  to  hear  the  cricket  in 
the  very  centre  of  the  metropolis  ?  "  My  mind 
at  once  recalled  the  following  hokku  poem  by 


"  Let  me  turn  over, 
Pray,  go  away, 
Oh  my  cricket !  " 

My  thought  dwelt  for  a  long  while  that  night 
upon  Issa,  the  hokku  poet  at  the  mountainside 
of  Shinshu,  and  his  shabby  hut  "  of  clay  and 
wattles  made  "  where  he  indeed  lived  with  the 
insects,  practically  sharing  his  house  with  them ; 
whenever  I  read  him,  the  first  thing  to  strike  me 
is  his  simple  sympathy  with  a  small  living  thing 
like  a  butterfly  or  this  cricket,  that  was  in  truth 
the  sure  proof  of  his  being  a  poet.  Although 
I  had  often  read  the  above  poem,  I  can  say 

137 


Through 

the 

Torii 


that  I  never  felt  its  humanity  so  keenly  as  that 
night. 

When  the  late  Mr.  Aston  published  A 
History  of  Japanese  Literature  quite  many  years 
ago,  I  know  that  the  part  about  Basho,  the 
greatest  hokku  poet  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
and  the  hokku  poems  in  general,  did  not  make 
a  proper  impression  on  the  Western  mind. 
And  here  I  have  no  particular  intention  to  force 
on  your  appreciation  with  this  Japanese  form  of 
poetry ;  this  article  is  only  to  express  my  own 
love  for  it.  When  we  say  that  the  East  is  the 
same  as  the  West,  we  mean  that  the  West  is 
as  different  from  the  East  as  the  East  is  from 
the  West;  how  could  you  understand  us 
through  and  through  ?  Poetry  is  the  most  diffi- 
cult art ;  it  will  lose  the  greater  part  of  its 
significance  when  parted  from  its  background 
and  the  circumstances  from  which  it  spring 
forth.  I  should  like  to  ask  who  in  the  West  will 
be  able  to  think  the  following  hokku  poem  the 
greatest  of  its  kind  as  we  Japanee  once  thought : 

"  On  a  withered  twig, 
Lo,  the  crow  is  sitting  there, 
Oh,  this  Autumn  eve  !  " 

138 


Even  to  us,  I  confess,  this  solitariness  of  a         What  is 

.  A  •  •  i     i  •  l^e  Hokku 

Japanese  Autumn  evening  with  the  crow  crying  poem? 
monotonously  on  the  tree  is  growing  lately  less 
impressive,  when  in  fact  as  to-day  the  crows 
become  scarce  before  the  factories  and  smoke  ; 
and  our  modern  heterogeneous  minds  are  be- 
ginning to  turn  somewhere  else. 


Through  AGAIN  ON  HOKKU 

the 
Torii 

THE  word  "  epigram "  is  no  right  word  (and 
there's  no  right  word  at  all)  for  Holcku,  the 
seventeen  syllable  poem  of  Japan,  just  as  over- 
coat is  riot  the  word  for  our  haori.  "  That  is 
good,"  I  exclaimed  in  spite  of  myself,  when  I 
found  this  comparison  to  begin  my  article. 
We  know  that  haori  is  more,  or  less,  according 
to  your  attitude,  than  the  overcoat  of  Western 
garb  which  rises  and  falls  with  practical  service  ; 
when  I  say  more,  I  mean  that  our  Japanese 
haori  is  unlike  the  Western  overcoat,  a  piece 
of  art  and  besides,  a  symbol  of  rite,  as  its  useful- 
ness appears  often  when  it  means  practically 
nothing.  If  I  rightly  understand  the  word 
epigram,  it  is  or  at  least  looks  to  have  one 
object,  like  that  overcoat  of  practical  use,  to 
express  something,  a  Cathay  of  thought  or  not, 
before  itself ;  its  beauty,  if  it  has  any,  is  like 
that  of  a  netsuke  or  olcimono  carved  in  ivory 
or  wood,  decorative  at  the  best.  But  what  our 
holclcu  aims  at  is,  like  the  haori  of  silk  or  crepe, 
a  usefulness  of  uselessness,  not  what  it  expresses 
but  how  it  expresses  itself  spiritually ;  its  real 
140 


value  is  not  in  its  physical  directness  but  in  its  A&*in  on 
psychological  indirectness.  To  use  a  simile,  it 
is  like  a  dew  upon  lotus  leaves  of  green,  or 
under  maple  leaves  of  red,  which,  although  it 
is  nothing  but  a  trifling  drop  of  water,  shines, 
glitters  and  sparkles  now  pearl-white,  then 
amethyst-blue,  again  ruby-red,  according  to  the 
time  of  day  and  situation ;  better  still  to  say, 
this  hokku  is  like  a  spider-thread  laden  with  the 
white  summer  dews,  swaying  among  the 
branches  of  a  tree  like  an  often  invisible  ghost 
in  air,  on  the  perfect  balance ;  that  sway  indeed, 
not  the  thread  itself,  is  the  beauty  of  our  seven- 
teen syllable  poem. 

I  cannot  forget  Mrs.  N.  S.  who  came  to  see 
me  at  the  poppy-covered  mountainside  of 
California  one  morning,  now  almost  seventeen 
years  ago  ;  what  I  cannot  forget  chiefly  about 
that  morning  is  her  story  that  she  made  a  round- 
about way  in  entering  into  my  garden  as  the 
little  proper  path  had  been  blocked  by  a  spider- 
net  thick  with  diamonds.  I  exclaimed  then  as 
1  do  often  to-day  :  "  Such  a  dear  sweet  soul 
(that  could  not  dare  break  that  silvery  thread) 
would  be  the  very  soul  who  will  appreciate  our 
141 


Through        hokku"     What  do  you  say,  if  there  is  one, 
Torii  suppose,  who  brings  down  the  spider- net  and 

attempts  to  hang  it  up  in  another  place  ?  Is  it 
not  exactly  the  case  with  a  translator  of  Japa- 
nese poem,  hokku  or  uta,  whatever  it  be?  To 
use  another  expression,  what  would  you  say  if 
somebody  ventured  to  imitate  with  someone's 
fountain  pen  the  Japanese  picture  drawn  with 
the  bamboo  brush  and  incensed  Indian  ink  ? 
Is  it  not  again  the  exact  case  with  the  translator 
like  Mr.  William  N.  Porter  in  A  Year  of 
Japanese  Epigrams  ? 

We  confess  that  we  have  shown,  to  speak 
rather  bluntly,  very  little  satisfaction  even  with 
the  translations  of  Prof.  Chamberlain  and  the 
late  Mr.  Aston ;  when  I  say  that  I  was  per- 
fectly amazed  at  Mr.  Porter's  audacity  in  his 
sense  of  curiosity,  I  hope  that  my  words  will 
never  be  taken  as  sarcasm.  With  due  respect, 
I  dare  say  that  nearly  all  things  of  that  book 
leave  something  to  be  desired  for  our  Japanese 
mind,  or  to  say  more  true,  Have  something  too 
much  that  we  do  not  find  in  the  original,  as  a 
result  they  only  weaken,  confuse  and  trouble 
the  real  atmosphere ;  while  perhaps,  it  means 
142 


certainly    that  the   English  mind  is  differently       A*ain  on 
...  .  .       ,  HokJtu 

rooted  trom  the  Japanese  mind,  even    in  the 

matter  of  poetry  which  is  said  to  have  no  East 
or  West.  When  I  appear  to  unkindly  expose 
Mr.  Porter's  defects  (excuse  my  careless  use  of 
word)  to  the  light,  that  is  from  my  anxiety  to 
make  this  Japanese  poetry  properly  understood. 
To  take  a  poem  or  two  from  his  book  at 
random  : 

Uzumibi  ya 
Kabe  ni  wa  kyaku  (not  kaku)  no 

Kage-boshi.  Basho. 

Mr.  Porter  translates  it  as  follows : 

"  Alas !     My  fire  is  out, 
And  there's  a  shadow  on  the  wall — 
A  visitor,  no  doubt. 

I  should  like  to  know  who  would  ever  think  of 
the  above  as  poetry,  even  poor  poetry,  in  his 
reading  of  it  in  one  breath  ;  what  does  "  no 
doubt "  (which  the  original  hasn't)  mean  except 
that  it  rhymes  with  the  first  line;  and  the  rhyme 
cheapens  the  poetry  at  least  to  the  Japanese 
mind  from  the  reason  of  its  English  convention- 
ality. The  first  line  of  the  original  is  not  "  my 

143 


Through        gre  js  out ."  on  faQ  contrary,  it  means  that  the 
Torii  fire,  of  course  the  charcoal  fire,  is  buried  under 

the  ashes.  The  poem  is  a  poem  of  winter 
night  which  becomes  late,  and  when  a  charcoal 
fire  already  small  grows  still  dearer  as  it  is  more 
cold  without,  perhaps  windy  ;  now  the  talk  of 
the  guest  or  visitor  (lo,  his  sad  lone  shadow  on 
the  wall)  and  the  master  poet  stops,  then  it 
starts  again,  like  a  little  stream  hidden  under  the 
grasses ;  and  the  desolation  of  the  advanced 
night  intensifies  the  sadness  of  the  house,  doubt- 
less Basho  An  whose  small  body  is  wrapped 
by  a  few  large  leaves  of  Basho's  beloved 
banana  tree  in  the  garden.  You  must  know, 
before  you  attempt  to  understand  it,  a  few 
points  of  the  poet's  characteristics,  above  all, 
the  way  of  his  living,  and  the  general  aspect  of 
his  house,  I  mean  Basho  An,  the  poetical 
poverty  of  which  will  be  seen  from  the  fact  that 
he  made  a  big  hole  in  the  wall  to  place  a  tiny 
Buddha  statue  as  he  had  no  place  to  enshrine 
it ;  not  only  this  Basho's  hokkus,  nearly  all  the 
seventeen-syllable  poems  that  were  produced  in 
the  early  age,  you  will  find  difficult  to  under- 
stand when  separated  from  the  circumstances 


and  background  from  which  they  were  bom,  to       A£ain  on 

.     .1      1.1  j        |  t    1       j  Hokku 

use  a  simile,  like  a  dew  born  out  or  the  deepest 
heart  of  dawn. 

It  is  not  my  purpose  here  to  criticise  and 
examine  Mr.  Porter's  translation  to  satisfy  my 
fastidious  heart  of  minuteness-loving ;  let  it 
suffice  to  say  that  the  hokku  is  not  a  poetry  to 
be  rightly  appreciated  by  people  in  the  West 
who  lie  by  the  comfortable  fire  in  Winter,  or 
under  an  electric  fan  in  Summer,  because  it  was 
originally  written  beside  a  paper  shoji  door  or 
upon  the  strow  mats.  We  have  a  saying : 
"  Better  to  leave  the  renge  flowers  in  their  own 
wild  plain ;"  it  suggest  quite  many  things,  but 
what  it  impresses  me  most  is  that  you  should 
admire  things,  flowers  or  pictures  or  what  not, 
in  their  own  proper  place.  To  translate  hokku 
or  any  other  Japanese  poem  into  English  rarely 
does  justice  to  the  original ;  it  is  a  thankless 
task  at  the  best.  I  myself  was  a  hokku  student 
since  I  was  fifteen  or  sixteen  years  old ;  during 
many  years  of  my  Western  life,  now  amid  the 
California  forest,  then  by  the  skyscrapers  of 
New  York,  again  in  the  London  'bus,  I  often, 
tried  to  translate  the  hokkus  of  our  old  masters 

145 


Through        j^  j  gave  Up  my  [^Q^Q  when  I  had  written  the 
Torii  following  in  English  : 

"  My  Love's  lengthened  hair 
Swings  o'er  me  from  Heaven's  gate : 
Lo,  Evening's  shadow !  " 

It  was  in  London,  to  say  more  particularly, 
Hyde  Park,  that  I  wrote  the  above  holelcu  in 
English,  where  I  walked  slowly,  my  mind  being 
filled  with  the  thought  of  the  long  hair  of 
Rossetti's  woman  as  I  perhaps  had  visited  Tate's 
Gallery  that  afternoon  ;  pray,  believe  me  when 
I  say  the  dusk  that  descended  from  the  sky 
swung  like  that  lengthened  hair.  I  exclaimed 
then  :  "  What  use  to  try  the  impossibility  in 
translation,  when  I  have  a  moment  to  feel  a 
hokku  feeling  and  write  about  it  in  English  ?" 
Although  I  had  only  a  few  such  moments  in 
the  past,  my  decision  not  to  translate  hokku 
into  English  is  unchanged.  Let  me  wait 
patiently  for  a  moment  to  come  when  I  become 
a  holeku  poet  in  my  beloved  English. 


146 


ON    POETRY  On  Poetry 

I  KEEP  my  eyes  unswervingly  upon  poetry 
(do  you  ask  me  what  is  poetry  ?) — if  I  succeed 
in  poetry  it  is  my  only  secret.  It  is  common 
enough  to  say  that,  but  it  is  least  understood 
even  among  the  so-called  poets.  To  fix  my 
sharp  attention  is  not  the  only  way  of  perceiving 
the  object  (I  never  think,  however,  of  poetry  as 
my  whole  object  in  life)  ;  but  my  attention  is 
most  keen  when  my  power  of  inattention  fully 
sways.  You  have  to  learn  that  most  difficult 
art  how  to  be  inattentive  ;  it  is  perfectly  arbitrary 
to  say  that  one  gets  his  poetry  at  the  unexpected 
moment.  AH  of  my  practice  is  spent  in  that 
very  inattention.  When  my  inattention  is  all 
well  developed  1  can  keep  my  unswerving  eye 
perfectly  upon  poetry.  I  say  again  that  when 
I  forget  poetry  it  is  the  rime  when  I  am  wholly 
with  poetry.  I  always  fail  to  write  poetry  when 
1  think  I  will  write  it. 

And  when  I  perfectly  perceive  the  real 
poetry,  I  never  think  I  am  before  its  presence ; 
because  the  poetry  and  I  are  all  one.  At  that 
moment,  the  sensations  and  impressions  (I  feel 

M7 


Through        faem  when  the  high  water  mark  is  not  yet  at- 
Torii  tained)  at  once  subside;  and  only  the  poetry 

that  is  the  real  '  I '  remains.  Indeed,  to  gain 
the  true  poetry  is  the  question  of  one's  nerve ; 
and  I  say  also  that  you  cannot  have  the  true 
poetry  with  that  nerve  itself ;  I  mean  that  you 
can  have  the  poetry  when  your  nerve  becomes 
non-nerve.  And  you  must  let  the  poetry  write 
itself ;  I  mean  that  you  must  get  your  own  true 
self.  That  is  my  secret  if  I  have  any. 

Poetry  is  so  interesting  at  least  in  my  case, 
because  it  makes  me  find  my  own  self ;  it  is  so 
important,  because  it  teaches  me  the  real  pro- 
portion between  me  and  Nature.  It  is  so 
educative  and  edifying,  because  it  makes  me 
philosophical ;  to  be  philosophical  is  the  very 
way  to  build  one's  character,  because  it  makes 
one  gain  silence,  for  silence  is  the  real  founda- 
tion of  character. 


148 


AGAIN  ON  POETRY  A^inon 

Poetry 

"  THOSE  books,"  I  say  to  myself,  looking  on 
the  four  volumes  of  my  own  poems,  "  I  dare 
claim  to  be  real  poetry  because  they  were  in 
truth  born  out  of  my  hatred,  that  is  when 
my  love  of  poetry  at  once  grew  intense  and 
turned  to  the  hatred  of  poetry."  Oh,  that 
moment,  indeed,  of  the  true  love  and  hatred, 
that  very  moment,  there  was  my  own  poetry 
for  once  and  forever ;  how  I  feared  to  look  back 
and  read  again  the  poems  when  they  were  once 
done,  or  to  be  looked  back  upon  by  those 
poems,  as  if  they  were  the  sins  I  had  committed 
from  fascination,  of  which  I  was  frightened  and 
repented.  That  is  my  confession;  and  you 
might  call  the  poems  of  mine  the  real  self- 
revelation  of  my  own  soul  full  of  love  of  poetry, 
that  is  to  say,  full  of  hatred  of  poetry,  provided 
that  world  "  self-revelation  "  means  more  than 
the  common  use.  I  should  say  that  the  man 
who  is  able  to  hate  poetry  is  far  better  qualified 
even  as  a  mere  reader  to  become  the  true  lover 
of  poetry ;  how  tired  I  am  to  hear  one  say  that 
he  loves  poetry  with  all  his  heart  and  soul. 


Through       That  only  sounds  to  me  as  a  jest  at  the  best. 

Torii  ^  think  there  is  a  deeper  truth  in  one's  saying 

how  he  hates  poetry ;  and  since  I  know  that 
the  true  love  comes  forth  from  the  true  hatred, 
and  the  love  and  hatred  are  twin  brothers  or 
sisters,  I  regard  the  hater  of  poetry  as  my  real 
friend.  Therefore  I  say  loudly  :  "  Come  to 
me  those  who  hate  poetry,  I  will  tell  them 
how  I  as  a  poet,  hate  the  poetry ;  and  let  us, 
why,  through  the  virtue  of  that  hatred,  make 
the  poetry  reveal  its  real  worth." 

When  Rossetti  found  the  interpretation  of 
love  in  Beauty,  he  failed  to  explain,  from  his 
vagueness  of  mind  or  baffling  cleverness,  what 
was  that  Beauty ;  and  he,  like  John  Keats 
before  him  of  course,  misled  the  small  poets, 
indeed  thousands  of  them,  making  them  believe 
in  Beauty  (whatever  it  was)  as  their  guiding 
star.  I  think  that  Ruskin  was  more  sane  in 
using  it  as  the  revealer  of  the  defects  of  our 
commonplace  life  ;  what  defects,  I  should  like 
to  know,  we  have  in  our  life !  What  I  am 
going  to  say  is  that  it  is  that  Beauty  or,  let  me 
say,  Poetry,  to  reveal  the  beauty  or  perfection 
of  our  material  life  and  order ;  when  I  write 
150 


my  own  poem,  it  is  when  I  long  for  and  adore  Agan 
my  commonplace  life  whereto  I  hasten  back. 
I  am  the  lover  of  material  order ;  that  love 
grows  enriched  from  the  fact  of  my  having  the 
most  poetical  moment  which,  as  I  said  before, 
is  so  dear  that  I  hate  it.  Oh,  let  me  hate  and 
hate  Poetry,  because  to  hate  it  is  to  love  it 
again.  Oh,  let  me  make  my  commonplace  life 
important ;  it  is,  is  it  not,  that  to  make  it  im- 
portant is  to  make  my  own  life  important  ? 


Through  THE  MORNING  FANCY 

the 
Torii 

IT  should  begin  with  the  opening  of  the  shoji 
here.  I  pushed  them  apart.  I  should  see  the 
lotus  bud  of  Fuji,  singing  the  "  swan-like 
rhapsody  of  dying  night,"  from  my  garden,  if  it 
were  a  Japanese  fiction  written  by  a  foreigner ; 
I  do  fifet  see  it  from  here.  Never  mind !  I 
can  be  pretty  well  off  without  seeing  it  this 
morning.  Thank  God,  I  have  even  a  quite 
comfortable  peace.  So  I  opened  my  garden 
shoji.  I  went  straight  into  dream  from  the 
reading  of  a  book  of  poems  by  a  certain  lady, 
last  night;  during  the  whole  night  my  mind  was 
touched  by  the  perfumes  down  a  certain  lane, 
now  and  then  deliciously  startled  by  a  phantom 
that  came  back  from  a  forgotten  shade ;  and  I  am 
still  dreaming  this  morning.  1  asked  my  servant 
to  burn  the  incense  which  softly  began  to  flap 
towards  me  as  a  tiny,  pearl-winged  butterfly  tan- 
talising many  flowers.  The  incense  tantalised 
my  soul  of  fancy  ;  my  fancy  grew  irritated,  and 
presently  mad ;  it  tried  to  chase  it  away  again 
and  again.  May  it  not  be  the  gray-robed  ghost 
of  something  forgotten  haunting  my  memory  ? 
152 


"  I  know  you  ghost  of  some  lone,  delicate  hour,  The 

Long-gone  but  unforget,  Morning 

Wherein  I  had  for  guerden  and  dower, 

That  one  thing  I  have  not." 

It  was  a  white  lilac  that  inspired  the  lady  to 
write  the  lines — yes,  the  lilac  tree.  Shall  I 
plant  it  in  my  garden,  although  I  have  no 
particular  faith  in  flowers  in  a  Japanese  garden  ? 
"  We  moderns  have  only  flowers,  but  not 
gardens,"  I  often  said  ;  and  I  even  went  on  to 
declare  that  we  must  protest  against  such  a 
state  of  things.  However,  I  should  be  glad  to 
have  one  or  two  lilacs,  not  in  the  garden,  but 
somewhere  beyond  my  sight,  their  old  perfumes 
sailing  towards  me  over  the  gray  ness. 

As  I  said,  I  opened  the  skoji  apart  and  sat 
on  the  verandah,  sipping  tea  ;  from  the  cup  my 
soul  of  fancy  drank  the  youthfulness  and  love 
of  these  early  summer  days  when  every  tree 
has  changed  its  crimson- sleeved  flower  dress  to 
a  green  coat.  I  always  thought  that  green  is  a 
symbol  of  youth,  and  also  of  a  maturing  love. 
So  this  early  Summer  is  more  to  my  heart  than 
Spring.  It  is  with  these  summer  days  that  the 
breeze  can  spread  its  musical  wings  freely.  O 

153 


Through        breeze    terribly   cursed   by   us    and    Spring  in 

the  A      -i  •   •          •         •          m 

Torii  April — poor  musician    m  air.     rlay  on  now, 

we  welcome  you  really  from  our  hearts  !  I  am 
perfectly  comfortable  this  morning.  A  moment 
ago  I  resolved  that  I  would  stop  writing  books ; 
I  would  convert  myself  into  a  reader, — well  that 
is  to  say,  when  I  have  time.  And  this  morning 
I  am  extremely  happy  in  a  sort  of  dream  on  this 
verandah.  I  looked  upon  the  sky,  and  found  a 
few  birds ;  my  own  soul  followed  after  them. 
The  sun  began  to  cast  a  strong  light. 

M  To-day  my  soul's  a  dragon-fly." 
-.-  "  The  world  a  awaying  reed." 

I  thought  presently  about  garden-making ; 
and  now  declared  that  the  garden  had  nothing 
to  do  with  nature,  or  not  much.  Those  people 
are  silly,  I  thought,  who  think  that  they  can 
make  a  garden  with  a  few  scraps  of  what  is 
vaguely  called  Nature,  closed  in  with  a  wall  or 
fence.  Oh,  no  !  There  must  be  primarily  the 
art  of  man ;  veil  or  clothe  it  with  the  breath  of 
nature ;  let  us  read  the  art  of  man  as  well  as 
that  of  Nature, — the  unmistakable  suggestion  of 
humanity  under  the  solitary  breath  of  Nature. 

154 


my  ideal  garden  should  be  silent.     I  am  The 

* rning 

Fancy 


,          Morning 

sure  you  will  regard  the   voice  as  a  piece  or 


vulgarity  when  you  are  acquainted  with  the 
sweetness  of  silence.  So  a  few  trees  I  will 
have  in  my  garden.  But  there  must  be  a 
somewhat  fantastic  shape  of  stone  under  any 
circumstances.  And  one  stone  lantern,  perhaps? 
The  garden  must  be  a  poetry  whose  voice  is 
suggestion  or  memory  itself ;  and  I  will  try  to 
gather  there  the  meaning  fit  for  my  own  fancy. 
But  when  shall  I  have  my  ideal  Japanese 
garden  ? — Oh,  my  garden  dark-robed  and 
silent  as  a  Buddha  priest 


J55 


Throush  INSULARITY 

the 
Torii 

OUR  thoughts  and  emotions  are  only  the  conti- 
nuation of  the  thoughts  and  emotions  of  our 
ancestors,  which  were  often  left  hidden,  un- 
expressed, happily  for  us,  but  always  in 
existence,  like  the  touch  of  air ;  while  our 
thoughts  may  appear  so  sudden,  frighteningly 
new,  they  have  somewhere  a  link,  sure  like  the 
stars,  if  you  have  eyes  to  see,  with  those  of  our 
progenitors.  We  value  what  the  ancestors 
expressed,  because  we  can  read  at  the  same 
time  what  they  left  unexpressed.  I  have  no 
hesitation  to  say  that  the  poets  who  sing  like 
Byron  or  that  golden-tongued  Tennyson  are 
admirable;  but  the  good  modern  poets,  no 
particular  names  mentioned,  are  unique  at  least 
on  account  of  their  inability  (ability  perhaps)  in 
singing.  It  takes  much  talent  to  describe  the 
outward  beauty,  and,  true  to  say,  even  some 
original  gift  to  appreciate  it ;  but  your  real 
courage  will  be  proved  in  your  entire  loss  of 
desire  of  outward  things.  One  can  be  taught 
by  another  how  to  see  and  understand  the  out- 
ward beauty,  but  there's  hardly  any  guidance 
156 


in  the  invisible  matter,  and  you  are  your  own  Insularity 
guide,  alone  in  the  world,  in  your  change  from 
the  visible  to  the  spiritual.  It  is  easy  to  change 
your  dress  and  hat  according  to  the  season  and 
style  ;  but  the  outside  attire,  even  the  best  kind, 
is  of  no  avail  for  your  spiritual  change.  It  is 
natural  course  to  enter  the  invisible  from  the 
visible,  as  you  step  into  night  from  day ;  but 
you  must  let  it  come  after  having  enough  satisfac- 
tion of  the  outward  things.  The  mellow  per- 
fection of  the  night  only  comes  after  all  the 
splendour  of  the  sun. 

As  for  me,  I  have  no  strong  love  with  the 
outward  things,  and  always  take  a  deep  delight 
in  the  little  inward  world — the  largest  world 
perhaps — of  my  creation,  and  rarely  sing  the 
visible  beauty.  Is  it  because  I  am  philosophical? 
Perhaps  I  am,  without  knowing  it  at  all.  Is 
it  because  I  am  somewhat  logical  ?  Perhaps  I 
am,  although  people  (I  included)  do  not  notice 
it.  One  thing  I  can  say  with  much  faith  is  that 
it  takes  a  great  energy  to  gain  an  assertion,  and 
a  tireless  persistence  to  be  content  with  the 
invisible  things.  You  must  fully  understand  the 
beauty  of  life,  if  you  want  to  see  the  beauty  of 

157 


Through       j^th  .  ancj  |ife  wijj  ke  more  beauljful  from  the 

Torii  reason  of  contrast  with  death.     And  death, 

again  from  the  contrast  with  life,  will  be  more 
tender  in  pathos,  more  subtle  in  rhythm.  My 
song  is  always  with  the  falling  leaves  and  the 
dying  day. 

I  am  not  ready  to  say  such  is  the  poetry  of 
modem  Japanese  poests ;  it  is  so  at  least  with 
some  of  them.  And  it  is  a  most  striking  con- 
trast with  the  material  civilisation  of  present 
Japan,  which  was  brought  at  once  from  the 
West;  the  West,  strangely  enough,  sent  us  at 
the  same  time  her  spiritual  literature  under  the 
arbitrary  name  of  symbolism.  Now,  that 
symbolism  is  not  a  new  thing  at  all ;  for  us,  it 
is  a  continuation,  of  course  with  much  modifica- 
tion, of  our  old  thoughts  and  emotions.  It  is 
interesting  to  note  that  it  came  here  when  we 
were  much  criticised  as  matelialists  without 
capacity  of  understanding  any  spiritual  beauty. 
As  somebody  says,  the  real  modern  civilisation 
of  Japan  is  nothing  but  the  old  civilisation  which 
has  changed  its  form  ;  and  I  say  that  the  true 
new  literature  is,  indeed,  the  old  literature, 
baptised  in  a  Western  temple.  We  have  led, 

158 


for  a  thousand  years,  our  insular  lives  ;  we  have      insularity 

been  materially  poor  (many   thanks    for    that 

poverty),  and  then  we  found  it  quite  easy  to 

commune  with  our  minds.     As  the  reality  was 

never   so    splendid,   we  were  obliged  to  seek 

satisfaction  in  dream ;  as  we  could  not  sing  so 

well,  we  learned  the  art  how  to  sing  in  silence, 

the  art  how  to  leave  unsung.     Poetry  was  never 

a  criticism  of  life  in  Japan,  as  it  was  for  one 

time  in   the  West;  but  it  was  the  words  of 

adoration  or  love  of  nature  and  life.     It  is  only 

the  modern  note  to  make  the  most  of  literature 

and  life  ;  it  is,  I  dare  say,  from  the  hidden  desire 

to  value  the  no-literature  and  death  more  than 

the  literature  and  life  themselves. 

We  must  not  lose  our  insularity,  although  it 
needs  a  strength  of  consciousness  ;  what  we 
want  is  intensiveness,  the  art  of  distillation  of 
our  thought,  which  only  comes  from  the  true 
pride  and  real  economy  of  force.  Universalism 
is  often  a  weakness  itself.  We  do  not  need,  in 
our  Japanese  literature,  any  long  epic  and  song, 
because  they  are  touched  more  or  less  by 
pretention.  Our  song  is  a  potted  tree  of  a 
thousand  years'  growth  ;  our  song  is  a  Japanese 

159 


Through        tea-house — four  mats  and  a  half  in  all — where 
Torii  we  kurn  the  rarest  incense  which  rises  to  the 

sky  ;  our  song  is  an  opal  with  six  colours  that 

shine  within. 


x6e 


MY  ATTITUDE  TOWARDS  THE 
FLOWERS 

MY  own  attitude  towards  the  flowers  is  the 
attitude  of  the  so-called  flower-master,  or,  to 
speak  more  exactly,  that  of  the  tea-master,  be- 
cause the  former  is  now  troubled  by  the  theories 
which  originally  came  to  exist  as  a  proof  of 
adoration  as  if  a  dew  from  the  burst  of  dawn. 
And  the  latter  is  the  art  of  accident,  though  it 
may  sound  rather  arbitrary,  born  from  the  proper 
setting.  When  I  call  the  flower- arrangement 
of  the  tea-master  the  natural,  I  mean  to  empha- 
sise the  point  of  formalism  in  those  of  the  flower- 
master  for  which  the  word  "  decorative "  is 
merely  an  excuse.  As  you  and  I  know  well, 
the  flowers  are  sufficiently  decorative  in  nature 
without  adding  any  emphasis ;  I  think  that 
"  decorative  "  is  one  of  those  two. or  three  words 
wrongly  used  in  the  West  when  applied  to  our 
Japanese  art ;  and  it  is  my  own  opinion  that 
the  true  decorativeness  will  never  be  gained  in 
any  art  of  East  or  West  through  the  point  of 
emphasis.  The  real  decorativeness  of,  for 
instance,  Korin  or  Hoitsu  lies,  at  least  to  our 

161 


My 

Attitude 
Towards 

the 
Flowers 


Through        Japanese  mind,  in  the  place  where  he  is  least 

the  j  i 

Torii  decorative  or,   let  me   say,  most  natural ;  the 

word  natural  for  the  Japanese  art  is  verily  old 
and  new.  Now  to  turn  to  my  attitude  in  look- 
ing at  the  flowers.  I  aim  it  to  be  natural,  be- 
cause my  mind  ever  so  hates  to  modify  the 
beauty  of  the  flowers ;  I  dare  say  it  is  a  new 
art  (if  I  can  call  it  so),  not  only  to  the  West, 
but  also  to  the  East,  which  I  gained  perhaps 
through  my  perfect  forgetting  of  the  old  Japanese 
flower  art.  When  I  cannot  see  the  way  how 
to  explain  myself,  I  always  say :  "  I  see  the  real 
nature  in  flowers."  If  you  say  I  admire  the 
selection  of  the  flowers,  you  are  wrong,  because 
I  never  select  them  as  it  might  appear  to  you  ; 
my  chief  value  as  a  flower  adorer,  or  mystery, 
if  1  have  any,  is  how,  and  more  important, 
where,  to  leave  the  flowers  to  sing  their  own 
quiet  songs  in  a  little  vase,  bronze  or  China, 
upon  the  tokonoma. 

My  mind  astrays  to  the  well-known  story  of 
Rikiu,  the  tea-master,  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
regarding  the  morning-glory,  which  Taiko,  the 
great  prince,  entreated  him  to  show  him ;  it 
goes  without  saying  that  the  morning-glory  was 
162 


yet  the  rarest  plant  at  that  time.  It  is  said  that 
Rikiu  had  put  all  the  flowers,  of  course  morning- 
glories,  away  from  the  garden  for  the  fine  peb- 
bles and  white  sand  on  the  appointed  day> 
where  Taiko,  as  you  can  imagine,  walked  most 
sulkily  towards  the  tea-room,  where  the  great 
tea-master  prepared  the  morning  tea  for  his  lord. 
The  lord  at  once  questioned  himself  where 
the  morning-glory  Rikiu  promised  was  planted  ; 
but  lo !  when  he  entered  the  room,  just  one 
single  morning-glory  most  winsome  and  delicate 
like  a  forgotten  moonbeam,  welcomed  him 
from  the  tokonoma.  Indeed,  it  was  a  great 
sacrifice  for  Rikiu  to  cut  off  all  the  other  morn- 
ing-glories ;  but  it  was  the  heroic  way  to  give 
the  one  flower  its  full  distinction.  I  think  that 
the  other  flowers  did  not  die  in  vain.  So  it 
is  with  my  attitude  towards  the  flowers  when  I 
look  at  them ;  I  do  not  see  the  mass  of  them, 
and  what  I  see  in  them,  whether  they  be  a 
willow  or  a  branch  of  plums  or  the  petals  of  lotus 
or  the  crawl  of  morning-glory,  is  just  a  touch 
or  hint  of  their  beauty,  and  I  object  to  seeing 
the  rest  of  them.  To  call  my  own  way  sug- 
gestive often  leads  people  to  misunderstanding ; 
163 


My 

Attitude 

Towards 

the 

Flowers 


Through        •{  j  nave  any  artistic  significance  or  merit  in  my 
Torii  attitude,  it  is  my  understanding  of  how  to  leave 

the  space  in  the  picture,  nay,  the  tokonoma 
where  the  vase  for  the  flowers  stands,  or  to 
speak  more  poetically,  how  to  cover  up  the 
space  of  that  tokonoma  with  the  most  graceful 
nothing  ;  therefore  my  tokonoma  has  no  stupid 
vacancy.  You  might  call  it  a  Japanese  art 
if  you  will ;  but  I  believe  that  the  true  art  has 
no  East  or  West  as  it  is  always  born  from 
nowhere. 


164 


FAITH  Faith 

x 

THE  followers  of  Buddhism  in  the  imperish- 
able raiment  of  silence  sit  before  the  inex- 
tinguishable lamp  of  Faith,  by  whose  light 
(indeed,  the  light  older  than  life  and  the  world) 
they  seek  the  road  of  emancipation.  The 
house  east  of  the  forests  and  west  of  the  hills  is 
dark  without,  and  luminous  within  with  the 
symbols  of  all  beauty  of  ghosts  and  heavens. 
It  is  the  most  wonderful  place  where  the 
imagination,  at  least  the  religious  imagination, 
has  for  a  thousand  years  never  been  changed ; 
I  like  here,  because  it  is  the  only  place  where 
criticism  vainly  attempts  to  enter  for  arguing 
and  denying.  The  silence  is  whole  and  perfect, 
and  makes  your  wizard  life  powerless ;  your  true 
friendship  with  the  ghosts  sad  and  beautiful 
will  soon  be  established.  You  have  to  abandon 
yourself  to  imagination  only  to  create  the 
absolute  beauty  and  grandeur  that  make  this 
our  human  world  look  so  trifling,  hardly  worth 
troubling  with;  it  is  the  magical  house  of  Faith 
where  the  real  echo  of  the  oldest  song  still 
vibrates  with  the  newest  wonder,  and  even  a 
165 


Through        simple  little  thought,  once  under  the  touch  of 

the  ...  111 

Torii  imagination,  grows  more  splendrous  than    art, 

more  beautiful  than  life.  It  is  never  a  question 
of  the  size  of  your  song  and  thought,  but  the 
question  of  Faith.  We  shall  be  at  once  brought 
back,  if  we  are  once  admitted  into  that 
wonderful  house,  to  the  age  of  emotion  and 
true  love,  where  we  speak  only  one  language 
that  is  that  of  adoration.  As  it  is  the  world 
of  imagination,  the  life  poetical  and  important 
will  be  in  our  sure  reach ;  let  us  be  thankful 
that  the  reality  of  the  external  world  has  ceased 
to  be  a  standard,  and  we  will  happily  be  our 
own  god,  and  Buddha.  We  will  be  a  revela- 
tion, therefore  a  great  art  itself,  of  hope  and 
passion,  which  will  never  fail. 


166 


THE   MOODS  The  Moods 

WE  are  revellers  at  the  banquet  of  the 
moods  under  the  moon  or  forest ;  ask  us  not 
whether  we  are  right  or  wrong,  happy  or  sad, 
sane  or  mad.  I  only  know  that  my  life  grows 
with  the  growing  moods,  and  my  literature  with 
the  growing  life ;  that's  quite  enough.  Let  us 
sing,  dance,  and  sing  again ;  we  may,  in  course 
of  time,  fight  or  theorise  or  assert  or  deny,  as 
if  a  sad  creature,  only  to  make  afterward 
our  song  and  dance  doubly  fresh  and  free. 
Thought  is  great,  doubtless  ;  but  the  moods  are 
greater.  Thought,  when  it  comes  into  exist- 
ence with  no  touch  of  the  moods,  can  be,  at 
its  best,  a  still-bom  child ;  it  may  look  quite 
perfect,  but,  alas  !  it  is  dead.  It  was  the  life 
of  the  moods  that  created,  in  olden  days,  the 
gods  and  goddesses,  and  peopled  the  forest 
and  stream  ;  and  it  is  the  life  of  our  modem 
moods  as  artists  to  make  a  forest  or  stream  turn 
to  a  mass  of  green  and  light  on  the  canvas. 
The  moods  are  everything ;  for  the  sake  of  the 
high  soar  of  my  moods,  I  ask  the  women, 
wine,  music,  flowers,  and  birds  to  make  their 
167 


Through        own  sacrifices.     It  is  from  the  moods  that  the 
Torii  clouds  fly,  and  the  rains  fall.     We  need  not 

attempt  to  restrain  our  moods,  but  should  let 
them  take  their  own  natural  course ;  when  they 
are  bad  and  worthless,  they  are  bound  to  die, 
without  waiting  for  your  force  to  be  used. 
And  there  is  always  hope  and  passion  when 
they  grow  and  live ;  the  things  that  grow  and 
live  are  ever  divine. 


168 


LIFE 

"  GOOD  Lord,  what  do  I  know  of  life  ? "  I 
exclaimed.  I  cannot  help  often  thinking  that 
it  is  impossible  for  me  to  understand  life's 
meaning  ;  I  am  a  perfect  failure  ;  is  there  not  a 
hidden  joy  that  I  missed  where  a  willow-tree 
swings  ?  is  not  there  a  strange  tear  that  I 
should  shed  where  a  cloud  points  ?  Oh !  is 
not  there  a  beatiful  love  that  I  could  not  even 
dare  to  dream,  where  a  stream  chatters  and 
away  hastens?  (Pray,  stream,  stay  with  me 
a  little  longer  and  speak  more  clearly  to  my 
prosaic  mind !)  I  may  have  been  a  mere 
spectator  before  the  stage  of  life ;  at  least  I 
have  been  regarded  as  such,  and  late  at  night 
when  people  sleep,  early  in  the  morning  when 
people  do  not  rise,  I  bitterly  cry  that  I  could 
not  become  a  real  player.  Had  I  not  any  art 
as  a  player  ?  But  I  can  say,  I  believe,  I  had 
some  experience  when  I  thought  I  was  a  real 
player  myself,  when  I  pressed  a  cup  of  life's 
wine,  and,  in  truth,  did  not  know  properly 
what  to  do  with  my  own  body,  which  was 
tickled,  happy  or  sad,  by  an  unfamiliar  touch 
169 


of  love,   and  I  walked  alone  by  a  lonely  road, 
Torii  more    often  sobbing,  sometimes  singing  ;  alas, 

those  hours  did  not  last  long.  And  I  always 
found  myself  suddenly  cool  and  passionless, 
and  my  uncertainty  of  mind  awoke ;  when  the 
scene  changed  I  Vas  no  more  a  player,  but  a 
critic.  Was  it  my  strength  or  weakness  ?  I 
could  not  accept  wisdom  good-naturedly,  as 
my  sceptic  eye  saw  much  foolishness  in  it ; 
when  I  faced  laughter  my  first  question  was  of 
tears,  and  I  was  really  a  sad  mortal,  prone  to 
undervalue  the  worth  of  love.  Oh!  what  a 
wretchedness,  after  all !  My  mind  is  full  of 
questions.  And  this  questioning  is,  I  think,  the 
newest  thing ;  the  best  possible  pride  is  to  say 
that  I  am  of  a  new  race.  Such  is  my  fate — 
•  the  saddest  fate  indeed. 

Happy  was  the  ancient  age  when  the  minds 
of  people  were  not  tortured  and  wounded  by 
questions,  did  not  attempt  to  understand  what 
they  could  not  understand;  and  they  had  a 
great  genius  to  turn  their  ignorance  to  the 
wonder  of  awakening.  They  lived  fully.  It 
is  true  that  even  I  know  how  to  live  fully  by 
reason  or  argument ;  but  I  have  no  faith,  and 
170 


without  the  touch  of  faith  reason  cannot  be-  Life 

come  a  living  thing.  Shall  I  go  eastward, 
westward,  southward,  or  northward  to  seek 
Faith  ?  If  I  were  sure  I  would  get  it,  1  should 
not  mind  to  travel  any  thousand  miles.  But 
night  may  full  before  I  walk  much,  when  my 
head,  of  course  uncontent  and  tired,  may  drop 
upon  the  dead  leaves  of  a  roadside  tree. 


171 


Through  HAPPINESS 

the 

Torii 

TO-DAY  happiness  is  too  commonplace  even 
to  wish  to  gain  in  the  ordinary  sense ;  at  least 
its  meaning  has  been  changed.  In  the  olden 
time,  it  was  looked  on  as  the  most  decent  thing 
to  desire  beside  health ;  people  thought  they 
had  even  a  right  to  claim  it,  and  it  seems  to 
me  they  got  it  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten,  as  they 
were  not  so  very  fastidious.  There  is  no  time 
like  to-day,  when  happiness  has  lost  its  golden 
dais ;  if  health  still  keeps  as  a  thousand  years 
ago,  a  world-wide  adoration,  it  is  because  it  is 
least  troubled  with  spirituality,  that  interesting 
baffler ;  and  it  is  too  honest  to  be  less  true.  It 
never  tells  a  lie.  (But  do  you  hate  its  homeli- 
ness and  tactlessness  ?)  We  know  that  our 
forefathers  who  had,  as  it  seems  to-day,  their 
virtue  in  stupidity,  attached  to  happiness  a 
meaning  of  permanence  and  stability  of  Cathay, 
and  imagined  it  far  away  ;  but  after  all  it  is  a 
superstition,  is  it  not  ?  And  that  superstition 
has  been  broken  for  some  time  now  ;  however, 
I  do  not  mean  that  happiness  has  ceased  to 
exist.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  very  much  alive, 
172 


indeed,  but  not  in  the  old  meaning;  and  in  HaPPiness 
what  way  ?  It  is  true,  I  think,  that  happiness 
which  we  fancied  to  be  something  substantial 
is  found  to-day  to  be  a  more  psychical  phenom- 
enon ;  the  question  is  where  we  can  find  it. 
It  is  much  nearer  to  truth  to  say  that  one  who 
least  expects  it  always  gets  it,  and  to  seek  after 
it  persistently  is  not  always  the  way  to  get  it. 
You  must  learn  how  to  get  it  without  a  thought 
of  it.  And  first  of  all  you  must  understand 
that  happiness  is  a  most  arbitrary  word;  the 
word  itself  means  almost  nothing.  It  should 
have  a  wider  meaning  than  it  used  to  have, 
because  it  should  be  understood,  as  I  wish,  to 
be  a  living  quality  of  psychical  life  rather  than 
one  particular  human  feeling.  Let  me  explain 
it  to  you  in  some  other  way. 

A  man  went  to  a  holy  priest  of  the  Zen 
sect,  and  disturbed  his  deep  meditation  with 
his  complaint.  He  said  :  "  I  am  miserable, 
because  I  am  poor.  I  am  miserable,  because 
I  am  in  ill  health.  I  am  miserable,  because  I 
am  old."  The  priest  said :  "  If  you  are  poor, 
you  try  to  live  in  poverty,  and  you  shall  be 
happy.  If  you  are  in  ill  health,  you  try  to  live 

173 


Through 

the 

Torii 


in  ill  health,  then  you  shall  be  happy.  If  you 
are  old,  you  try  to  live  in  old  age,  then  you 
shall  be  happy." 

Now,  living  in  it  is  not  living  with  it.  As- 
similation is  not  the  proper  word ;  to  say  to 
lose  yourself  in  a  condition  of  eva  nesence  might 
be  a  better  expression.  And  to  lose  it  is  to 
gain  it.  The  best  swimmer  never  struggles 
against  the  wave ;  and  you  have  to  go  to  the 
darkness  of  night  for  the  light  of  day.  There 
is  a  secret  to  turn  misery  or  unhappiness  on  the 
spot  to  happiness  by  the  magic  of  your  con- 
ception (Oh  the  attitude !) ;  and  simple  it  is. 
If  you  say  it  tells  only  a  half  truth,  I  will  say 
to  you  that  the  half  truth  can  become  the 
whole  truth  upon  the  shortest  notice. 


J74 


Beauties 


IT  may  not  be  that  the  beauties  refuse  to 
mix ;  but  their  silence,  solitariness  and  independ- 
ence are  dignity,  also  virtue,  through  which 
they  rise  to  the  highest  worth.  And  when 
they  have  to  mix,  they  should  heat  first  and 
then  set  themselves  to  motion  in  song ;  the 
wonder  is  that  they  mix  perfectly  well.  It  is 
plain  enough  that  the  beauties  of  human  life 
do  never  mix  well  till  they  gain  a  fire  of  love ; 
I  mean  to  say  there  is  almost  no  beauty  till 
love  creates  it  for  human  life  ;  and  how  do  the 
beauties  of  Nature  mix  ?  I  observe  the  clouds, 
trees,  stars,  mountains,  birds  and  streams  which 
mix  at  once  through  the  fire  of  rhythm,  and 
complete  a  song  of  natural  harmony ;  I  say 
the  fire  of  rhythm,  but  you  can  say  it  is  electric- 
ity or  personal  magnetism  if  you  like.  It  is 
perfectly  wonderful  to  see  that  they  know 
their  own  places  ;  I  mean  they  never  trespass 
but  respect  the  others,  and  in  song  and  action 
do  their  best.  (It  is  only  the  sad  mortals  who 
always  misstep  consciously  or  unconsciously ; 
their  misstepping  is  so  clear.)  But  I  think  that 

175 


Through        tneir  mdividuahty  is  not  distinguished,  on  the 

the  ..,.,,.         .      |    . 

Torii  contrary,  it  is  slightly  impaired  m  most  cases, 

when  they  mix  with  others  and  sing  their 
music.  I  can  explain  this  better  with  a  Japa- 
nese picture  drawn  on  a  silk  scroll ;  suppose  you 
have  right  before  you  a  picture  of  the  autumnal 
moon  whose  golden  light  is  reflected  on  a 
stream  below.  I  am  sure  that  neither  the  moon 
nor  the  stream  do  show  their  own  best  as 
when  you  look  upon  them  separately ;  but  is 
there  not  an  unmistakable  love  and  beautiful 
kindship  as  a  whole  ?  The  true  harmony  is 
only  gained  from  the  very  sacrifice  of  a  certain 
individuality ;  it  is  so  in  nature  as  in  human 
life.  Therefore  I  said  that  the  Nature  is  at  its 
height  of  worth  when  it  commands  silence, 
solitariness  and  independence ;  I  mean  when  it 
is  all  by  itself,  alone  and  separately.  I  re- 
member I  was  given  by  my  teacher  of  art, 
when  1  began  art  lessons  in  my  boyhood  days, 
the  pictures  of  an  orchid,  or  bamboo,  or  pine 
tree,  to  copy ;  they  were  the  pictures  of  single 
objects.  I  see  no  great  wisdom  in  it ;  and  it 
is  the  most  difficult  sort  of  subject  for  a  picture 
svhen  I  come  to  think  of  it  to-day.  Oh,  what 
176 


a  difficulty  to  draw  its  silence,  solitariness  and  Beauties 
independence  indeed  !  And  I  thought  in  those 
days  it  was  rather  an  easy  thing  to  draw;  it  is 
true  that  there  is  nothing  hard  for  a  boy. 
Oh,  I  wish  I  could  return  again  to  my  boy- 
hood days.  It  is  not  bad  to  enjoy  the  true 
harmony  or  music  of  nature ;  but  to  appreciate 
its  silence,  solitariness  and  independence  is  the 
true  test  of  human  culture.  1  know  that  edu- 
cation is  always  mischievous  in  wrong-doing ; 
it  makes  us  astray  from  the  path  true  and  free. 


Through 

the 

Torii 


TRUTH 

TRUTH  is  often  insignificant,  like  a  feather  on 
a  pigeon's  back  and  sometimes  solemn,  impor- 
tant, heavy,  like  a  cloud-scorning  mountain  of 
the  North  (North  whence  cold  winter  of 
wisdom  comes) ;  but  truth  is  truth,  not  less, 
not  more,  under  any  circumstances.  It  is  like 
a  moon  under  a  veil  of  mist,  when  you  see  it 
rather  obscure  and  less  impressive ;  it  always 
exists  full  and  round  ;  it  has  no  ebb  nor  flow. 

It  became  more  a  habit  of  human  nature,  I 
dare  say,  than  necessity,  to  seek  truth  ;  in  fact, 
we  need  so  often  no-truth  to  get  fire  and  power 
and  adjust  ourselves,  just  as  we  go  straight 
to  hatred  for  love.  I  even  think  it  was  started 
from  human  weakness  ;  but  it  has  grown  a 
strength  in  general  consent  because  it  protects 
you.  Therefore  it  was  regarded  as  the  most 
worthy  object  of  life  and  the  world  from  time 
immemorial ;  and  I  find  already  in  the  very  old 
age  quite  a  number  of  people  who  left  their 
own  record  of  sad  failure  in  truth-seeking.  It 
is  strange  enough  we  mistook  it  for  success; 
the  writing  is  at  best  merely  an  apology.  I 

178 


have  ample  proof,  however,  to  believe  that  the 
ancient  people  got  more  truth  than  we,  because 
they  were  more  quiet,  not  talking  so  much 
about  this  truth  as  we  do  And  it  is  our 
saddest  hearts  of  modem  age  to  discuss  all 
days  and  nights  on  it  and  rarely  agree  with 
the  others  ;  we  have  found  it  so  difficult  to 
seek  it  There  will  be  no  more  talking  about 
it  when  we  have  it  right  before  us ;  indeed, 
what  necessity  have  we  then  to  talk  about  it, 
when  we  see  it  clear  like  the  big  sun  of 
summer  day  ? 

We  see  many  a  one  hurrying  the  East  to 
look  after  truth  ;  another  to  the  West  for  the 
same  purpose.  One  stops  in  one  place ;  the 
other  journeys  far  and  distant.  It  is  a  pity  to 
laugh  over  their  restlessness  with  good  inten- 
tion; but  restlessness  is  always  a  tax  that  fools 
have  to  pay.  I  will  say  to  them :  "  Be 
composed  and  cool,  my  friends,  and  learn  that 
descending  is  only  the  way  of  ascension.  Not 
to  seek  truth  is  the  shortest  cut  to  get  it.  And 
if  you  want  it  you  can  find  it  anywhere  in  the 
world,  even  in  the  dusts  of  a  street.  You 
may  ask  me,  then,  how  and  where  to  find  it. 
179 


Through 

the 

Torii 


But  to  tell  it  to  you  does  no  good  at  all ;  it  is 
you  are  the  person  that  wants  it,  not  1  ;  and  1 
am  not  you.  You  must  find  your  own  salva- 
tion. It  is  not  necessary  to  drink  all  the 
water ;  just  a  drop  of  it  tells  you  the  taste  and 
mystery  of  the  whole  ocean.  Let  the  infinite 
song  of  the  forests  and  hills  wander  through 
the  four  seasons  ;  you  will  find  that  song  in 
the  shiver  of  a  leaf,  in  the  beckoning  of  a 
grass,  that  lies  before  you  at  your  feet.  And 
when  you  forget  the  question  of  truth  is  when 
you  perfectly  understand  it ;  as  the  real  moun- 
taineer does  not  see  the  mountain,  the  true 
seeker  of  truth  never  sees  truth,  because  he  is 
truth  itself." 


ISO 


UGLINESS  ueliness 

\ 

WE  have  a  frequent  moment  when  we  see 
more  beauty  in  ugliness,  which  often  penetrates 
our  soul ;  the  ugliness,  in  such  a  case,  must 
show  a  sort  of  eagerness  of  hope,  though 
vague  and  distant,  of  reshaping.  Such  a  hope 
itself  is  a  virtue,  therefore  beauty ;  through  that 
virtue,  the  ugliness  is  already  redeemed  of  half 
its  ugliness  ;  there  is  nothing  more  divine  than 
confession.  Knowing  its  sad  side  for  anything 
is  always  beautiful ;  that,  only  that,  makes  the 
ugliness  reveal  a  far  better  light  than  beauty 
itself ;  its  triumph  is  more  staying.  We  often 
see  one  passionately  fallen  in  love  with  the 
ugliness,  and  wildly  scorning  the  smile  of 
beauty ;  we  might  think  such  a  one  rather 
amusing,  but  he  is  not.  He  feels  an  irresistible 
happiness  in  pity  ;  that  happiness  is,  indeed,  its 
highest  water-mark,  because  it  is  burst  from 
charity,  therefore  justification.  Strange  enough, 
however,  is  the  fact  that  the  true  ugliness  (often 
the  true  beauty)  is  not  such  a  weak  thing  to 
always  call  for  one's  sympathy ;  it  never  needs 
any  kind  of  improper  argument.  To  say  that 

181 


Through 

the 

Torii 


one  is  interested  in  ugliness  is  ironical ;  the  truth 
is  that  he  sees  clearly  a  beauty  in  it,  that 
beauty  that  leads  you  to  peace,  certainty,  and 
eternity.  It  is  quite  a  modern  note  to  say  that 
it  is  perfectly  a  shame  to  remain  ugly,  and  we 
do  not  see  the  reason  why  we  cannot  turn 
beautiful ;  but  the  ugliness  is  far  nearer  to  truth. 
This  is  the  life  of  confession ;  indeed,  the  real 
life  only  begins  when  you  see  your  real  self 
itself.  And  not  the  beauty  but  the  ugliness 
knows  better  about  its  own  worth.  It  is  true 
that  beauty  is  false,  or  more  apt  to  be  false  ;  we 
see  more  ugliness  in  beauty  than  beauty  in 
ugliness.  It  is  not  my  new  discovery,  but  it  is 
the  fact  old  like  life  and  the  world.  And  it 
seems  to  me  that  we  are  slowly  but  steadily 
approaching  the  day  when  justice  shall  be 
done  for  anything.  It  is  not  too  much  to  say 
that  our  life  finds  a  solid  support  or  life's 
nourishment  in  the  beauty  that  is  distilled 
through  ugliness  ;  ugliness  is  not  ugliness  after 
all. 


182 


NETSUKES  Netsuke" 

"  The  gesticulation  of  Nature  and  Life  emphatically 
drawn  on  the  little  pieces  of  ivory." 

WOMAN  in  Japan  used  to  marry  because 
marriage  was  thought  most  proper,  even  natural; 
but  now  she  marries  because  it  is  very  expensive. 
And  the  man  marries  from  the  sense  of  economy, 
not  only  physical  but  also  spiritual ;  that  is  the 

point  where  he  makes  the  first  misstep  in  life. 

/ 

Woman,  at  least  in  Japan,  is  always  deco- 
rative in  the  common  use  of  the  word ;  in  that 
she,  as  a  piece  of  art,  rarely  rises  into  a  pure 
high  art,  lies  her  merit.  To  say  she  is  materi- 
alistic does  her  hardly  justice ;  I  see  a  case 
when  she  is  spiritual,  but  it  is  more  or  less  from 
the  motiye  that  she  wishes  to  conceal  her  un- 
happiness  and  failure. 

It  is  only  sin,  let  me  say,  that  never  grows 
old  ;  its  homogeniety  is  quite  peculiar.  Indeed 
its  hatred  of  respectability  is  most  modern. 
When  virtue  changes,  evolves,  that  is  sure 
proof  that  it  is  never  so  strong  as  the  sin  itself. 
183 


Through  There  is  a  little  thing  which  I  picked  up  just 

the 

Torii 


because  I  was  only  afraid  somebody  else  might 


pick  it  up  ;  again  there  is  another  thing  which 
I  threw  away  just  because  I  liked  to  hear  it 
whispered  how  foolish  I  was.  The  both  cases 
I  experienced  in  the  matter  of  women  and  love. 

My  romance  died  away  when  I  ceased  to 
deceive  myself  or  play  a  trick  on  myself ;  I 
cannot  see  myself  to-day  as  if  another  person. 
I  feel  envy  in  over-hearing  some  young  man 
who  exclaims  :  "  Why,  she  is  most  sacred  !  " 
I  confess  that  when  1  spoke  such  words  four- 
teen or  fifteen  years  ago  even  for  my  fancy's 
sake,  I  felt  at  least  at  the  moment  that  I  was 
speaking  the  nearest  possible  truth  of  the  words 
myself. 

Nearly  all  things  can  be  bought,  even 
cheaply.  Really  we  are  struggling  how  to 
buy  them  dear.  That  is  one  of  the  charms  of 
us  human  beings. 

It  is  a  dying  art  in  Japan  how  to  compli- 
ment, especially  to  the  fair  sex  ;  the  Western 
184 


countries  are,  in  truth,  far  better  off  than  we  in       Netsukes 
it.     The  fact  that   our  Japanese   women  are 
not  so  simple   and    optimistic  as  supposed  to 
be,  has  had  a  great  deal  to  do  in  bringing  about 
its  sudden  unexpected  decline. 

It  is  a  custom  to  change  your  own  name  at 
first,  when  you  become  an  actor  or  geisha  or 
even  wrestler,  because  art  in  Japan  begins  with 
masquerading  ;  you  will  get  art  when  you  lose 
your  own  self.  But  suppose,  when  you  want 
to  return  to  your  original  self  again,  you  have 
to  part  with  all  the  art  you  got  by  the  sacrifice 
of  your  own  self !  Art  and  Life  are  quite 
different  things  in  Japan. 

I  put  nearly  everything  good  and  true  in  my 
poetry  ;  when  my  poetry  is  done,  I  hasten  to 
the  stupidity  and  plainness  of  Life.  I  am 
indeed  amused  to  be  told  then :  "  How  tired 
you  look  from  having  too  much  "poetry  !  What 
a  prosaic  life  you  are  now  having  !  " 

Failure  is  more  true,  more  real,  more  sane, 
than  success  ;  to  get  the  real  failure  is  a  great 

185 


Through        triumph  itself.     I  am  a  worshipper  of  failure ; 
Torii  ky  ^e  true  Power  °f  failure  I  wish  to  reach 

the  success. 


People  say  that  they  get  experiences  from 
life ;  but  that  is  hardly  truth.  When  your 
dream  turns  to  experiences  by  strange  magic, 
it  is  there  where  your  life  begins.  Experi- 
ences are  not  the  fact,  but  imagination. 

We  are  often  optimistic  because  we  are,  in  our 
heart  of  hearts,  dreadfully  pessimistic. 

When  a  man  marries  again,  that  is  from  the 
reason,  more  than  any  other  reason,  that  he 
likes  to  emphasise  his  life's  failure,  that  is  to 
mean,  he  wishes  to  keep  up  the  atmosphere  he 
created  at  the  cost  of  failure.  To  say  men 
risk  their  luck  is  wrong;  there  are  pnly  few 
men  who  understand  what  luck  means. 

Japan  is  not  so  prosaic  as  the  Western 
countries  where  one's  defects  or  originality  are 
too  exaggerated.  The  real  Japanese  originality 
is  in  our  love  of  the  commonplace. 

186 


Japan  is  the  only  one  unique  country  where 
is  such  a  difference  yet  between  the  married 
men  and  the  bachelors. 

It  is  only  in  Japan  where  the  ages  of  young 
women  are  told  in  broad  daylight. 

Japanese  are  always  happy,  at  least  seem  to 
be  happy,  because  they  rarely  understand 
what  love  means. 

One  of  the  Japanese  charms  is  in  the 
fact  that  nothing,  in  Japan,  from  the  matter 
of  clothes  to  the  matter  of  food,  is  ever 
enough. 

Japanese  women  are  turning  nowadays  from 
soft  delicate  pottery  to  cold  hard  porcelain. 
Although  even  in  the  former  case  they  had  to 
go  through  some  fire,  it  is  in  the  latter  that  a 
big  fire  is  required  and  the  painting  on  the 
surface  will  never  appear  so  artistic  as  in  the 
former  case.  The  day  for  their  indefinite 
charm  of  femininity  or  weakness  as  in  pottery 
is  already  past. 

187 


Through  Japanese  women  are  simply  glad  to  appear 

Torii  overdressed  for  the  occasion  as  they  never  dress 

enough  in  their  daily  life. 


There  is  no  other  way  to  cure  the  soul's 
illness  except  by  the  senses  ;  again  there  is  no 
other  way  to  cure  the  senses  except  by  the 
power  of  spirit.  But  what  shall  happen  when 
you  attempt  to  cure  the  spirit  with  the  spirit, 
the  senses  with  the  senses ;  there  will  be  only 
ruin  for  the  result 

Indeed  the  Japanese  monotony  is  unbearable. 
But  wisdom  will  soon  teach  us  it  would  be 
only  the  just  proper  way  to  escape  from 
monotony  that  we  bind  or  assimilate  ourselves 
with  it. 

Ugliness  is  still  supposed  in  Japan  to  be  the 
virtue,  the  greatest  virtue  in  the  world. 

It  is  poor  Japanese  art  when  it  begins  with 
climax  and  ends  with  exclamation  as  in  some 
work  of  Hokusai  or  many  later  Ukiyoye 
artists.  But  when  the  art  is  high  and  noble 

188 


as  in  that  of  Sesshu  and  Sotatsu  and  a  few        Netsukes 
others,  the  artists  never  speak  in  pictures  except 
by  the  words  of  silence. 

There  are  many  people  who  think  that 
modern  personality  is  more  or  less  a  creation  of 
audacity ;  I  have  a  reason  or  two  to  think  it  a 
burden.  Permit  me  to  say  that  to  have  no 
personality  at  all  in  the  present  age  is  really  to 
have  a  great  personality. 

Truth  is  that  we  Japanese  lack  in  curiosity ; 
therefore  we  are  not  inventive,  creative,  but 
merely  imitative. 

Present  Japan  is  a  sad  mixture  of  bad  ac- 
tion and  good  intention  as  if  we  say  bad 
painting  and  good  purpose  for  art.  We  are 
fooling  ourselves  when  we  say  that  we  are 
having  the  best  age  of  long  history  to-day. 

Trouble  is  that  we  have  Japan,  true  to  say, 

but  no  Japanese,  in  the  sense  that  there  are 

Russians  but  not  Russia.     Indeed  we  lost  our 

own  individuality  in  thinking  much  of  the  nation. 

189 


Through  There  is  in  our  Japanese  life  no  period  called 

Torii  youth  ;  we  arrive  at   manhood   at   once  from 

boyhood ;  and  those  boyhood  days  are  fright- 
fully short. 

Don't  spoil  your  poetry  by  questioning,  deny- 
ing or  renunciation.  Only  you  have  to  adore 
it,  praise  it ;  that  is  the  only  way  such  an  un- 
reasonable thing  as  poetry  will  develope.  The 
question  of  poetry  is  a  question  of  nerve  in  which 
thought  and  passion  have  their  sweet  dreams. 

I  am  like  a  cobweb  hung  upon  the  tree,  a 
prey  to  every  wind  and  sunlight.  Who  will 
ever  say  that  we  are  safe  and  strong  ? 

How  sad  Japan  began  her  life  with  moralis- 
ing. No,  we  shall  not  thank  Confucius.  If 
we  had  begun  it  with  dance  or  song,  our 
temperament  might  have  been  more  natural. 
Nearly  all  the  nations,  it  seems  to  me,  began, 
just  like  us  human  beings,  their  own  lives 
wrongly  in  spite  of  themselves. 

What  I  am  terrified  about  with  success  is 

i  go 


the  way  she  comes.  I  hate  anything  ac- 
cidental. It  is,  1  think,  a  great  test  of  my 
strength  that  I  greatly  fear  to  meet  her  on  my 
road  of  life. 

If  there  is  anything  admirable  in  Japan,  that 
is  no  other  but  the  Japanese  woman's  kimono 
quite  formless,  even  fantastic.  And  it  is  the 
woman's  love  or  personality  when  she  makes 
it  turn  to  a  shape.  How  I  used  to  hate  to  see 
the  Western  women  apologetic  under  the 
tailor-made  dress. 

The  vulgarisation  of  General  Nogi  has  been 
going  on  for  some  time  now  almost  recklessly  ; 
I  see  that  a  new  book  on  him  is  sent  out  from 
the  printer  every  day.  (It  is  not  far  from  truth 
to  say  that  quite  many  books  on  Nogi  go,  not 
to  the  people,  but  straight  to  the  waste-basket.) 
In  old  Japan,  when  a  really  great  personality 
passed  away,  we  built  a  temple  or  shrine  upon 
his  grave  and,  saying  nothing,  let  our  silent 
prayer  tell  our  hearts.  It  was  from  the 
American  journalism  if  we  have  made,  as  in 
fact,  a  thiid-rate  gossip  and  little-tattle  of  a 
191 


Through        shallow  age  out  of  our  country  ;  is  it  too  much 
Torii  to  say  that  it  is  America  also  who  encourages 

our  spiritual  corruption  ?  Gen.  Nogi's  person- 
ality is  too  sacred,  therefore  unfortunate  as  a 
choice  of  a  subject  for  popular  treatment ;  his 
final  act  made  a  class  apart ;  its  greatness  is  in 
its  rainbow-sudden  prophecy,  not  in  the  per- 
formance itself.  Surely  Reason  would  pass 
him  by,  but  Poetry  will  take  note  of  him.  I 
deem  him  great,  because  he  alone  in  the 
modern  history  of  Japan  made  Life  obey  his 
will  and  Death's  gold-armoured  dignity  shine 
in  old  splendour. 

I  always  notice  that  when  the  Japanese 
expand  and  even  impose  ideas  on  others,  it  is 
the  time  when  they  have  none  of  them ;  and 
they  keep  quiet  and  content  like  the  fully-ripe 
chestnut  snug  in  its  burr  when  they  have  ideas. 
It  is  a  half-filled  wagon  that  makes  a  noise ; 
the  fully  flowing  sky  has  only  the  words  of 
silence. 

Pray   see   how   the   tea  loses  its  real  taste 
when  against  the  sunlight,  and  again  see  how 
192 


the  Chinese  ink  turns  to  ashen  gray  under  the 
same  condition.  That  is  because  they  have 
denied  the  protection  of  Solitude  and  betrayed 
it.  Oh,  the  great  blessing  of  Solitude  be  upon 
me ;  let  me  rise  and  fall,  live  and  die  with  it. 
I  am  a  singer  of  silence,  the  ever-blossoming 
beauty  of  Solitude. 

I  think '  it  is  the  most  true  way  (let  me  say 
the  most  heroic  way)  to  go  through  the  pain  of 
ugliness  when  you  want  to  see  and  feel  the 
real  beauty.  To  see  the  world  as  it  is  and 
love  it  is  common  enough.  Let  me  see  the 
world  first  as  it  is  not  and  hate  it  with  the 
possible  great  hatred.  And  when  I  grow  to 
see  the  world  afterward  as  it  is  and  feel  to 
love  it,  it  is  the  time  when  I  am  turning  natural 
and  true.  To  fall  means  to  rise,  or  falling 
is  just  the  beginning  of  rising. 

I  often  thought  before  that  the  great  enemy 
was  doubt,  but  now  I  should  like  to  say  that 
to  truly  doubt  is  to  truly  believe.  (So  the 
enemy  was  my  real  friend.)  And  I  should  say 
that  doubt  is  more  human  and  far  more  living 

193 


Through        faan  ^{Q^     Indeed,    pain  is  more  real  and 

Torii  true  ^an  Py*     I-16*  me  say»  though  paradox- 

ical, Believe  in  Doubt,  and  doubt  in  Belief. 


Is  there  anything  new  under  the  sun  ?  Cer- 
tainly there  is.  For  instance,  see  how  a  «  bird 
flies.  And  how  flowers  smile. 


FROM  A  JAPANESE  INK  SLAB 

I  THINK  that  the  moon,  among  the  natural 
phenomena,  appears  as  if  perfectly  hating  even 
an  accidental  shaking  of  hands  or  all  personal 
contacts,  oh  what  an  aloofness  in  her  shrinking 
from  the  worldly  vulgarity.  (The  flowers, 
even  the  saintly  lotus  included,  on  the  other 
hand,  look  always  as  if  liking  human  friend- 
ship.) And  what  a  feminine  sensitiveness  and 
adroitness  in  evading  the  others ;  see  how 
amiably  she  slips  from  the  trees*  salutation. 
The  mountains  and  hills  have  no  power  to 
keep  her  with  them  ;  the  clouds  are  always 
baffled  by  her  beautiful  elusiveness.  I  am 
often  mystified  in  taking  my  evening  walk,  by 
her  hide-and-seek  play  ;  she  frightens  me  from 
my  back  when  I  thought  she  should  be  right 
before  me.  And  when  I  sought  her  amid  the 
leaves,  she  was  found  smiling  between  the 
ripples  of  water  at  my  feet !  Oh  I  wish  to 
have  her  gift  for  the  avoidance  of  things  that 
I  do  not  want  to  do ;  what  a  personality  in  her 
having  her  own  way. 


From  a 
Japanese 
Ink  Slab 


195 


Through  Although  Hokusai  was  a  great  artist  (though 

Torii  he  may  not  have  been  so  great  an  artist  as  the 

pedestrian  critics,  mostly  Europeans,  think  he 
is)  he  was  at  last  a  victim  of  the  vulgar  subject 
of  Fuji  Mountain  ;  even  his  famous  (famous  in 
the  West)  Fuji  in  Lightning  is  a  failure,  be- 
cause the  picture  has  hardly  anything  except 
audacity  in  colour.  When  I  turn  over  the 
pages  of  "One  Hundred  Views  of  Fuji,"  I 
always  ask  myself  how  much  of  the  real 
mountain  would  be  left  if  you  took  our  Hoku- 
sai himself  ;  when  he  entered  into  true  Nature 
he  was  indeed  great ;  when  he  left  Nature  for 
art,  he  was  often  mere  artisan  Hokusai.  in 
one  word,  he  was  vulgar ;  and  not  only  in  his 
art,  also  in  his  act  and  manner  he  cultivated  his 
vulgarity.  Worse  still,  he  is  much  prized  in 
the  West  for  his  vulgarism.  I  should  like  to 
know  who  among  Japanese  artists  ever  suc- 
ceeded with  Fuji  Mountain ;  I  am  glad  that 
Hiroshige,  unlike  Hokusai,  did  not  much  draw 
that  mountain.  I  hear  one  old  artist,  although 
I  forget  his  name,  who  never  painted  Fuji  in 
his  life ;  what  a  distinction  for  that  artist. 


196 


Not  only   Boston   Beans,    also  the   Boston          From  a 
literature,  seems  developing  lately  in  Japan  ;  the 
difference  is  that  our  Japanese  cheap  edition  of 
Boston  literature  has  no  Emerson. 

Why  is  there  only  one  way  to  say  Yes  and 
No,  while  there  might  be  in  the  West  three 
hundred  and  sixty  five  ways  of  cooking  eggs  ? 
We  have  here  a  hundred  ways  for  bow- 
making  ;  but  there  is  only  one  way  to  sit. 

I  passed  one  day  by  a  certain  country  road 
covered  with  foliage  and  grasses  where  Jizo, 
the  stone  deity  who,  it  is  said,  paternally  pro- 
tects the  dead  children  in  Hades,  stood  sad 
and  lonely.  When  I  passed  by  a  second  time, 
I  observed  that  one  arm  of  that  divinity  was 
gone ;  at  the  third  time,  that  was  one  month 
ago,  I  discovered  that  he  was  most  pitifully 
headless.  And  when  I  passed  by  yesterday, 
he  was  seen  no  more ;  by  asking  one  little  boy 
playing  by  the  roadside  where  he,  that  arm- 
less headless  god,  had  gone,  I  discovered  his 
saddest  fate  that  the  father  of  the  boy  had 
moved  away  the  god  to  use  him  as  a  stone 
197 


Through        weight  for  pickles.     Oh  what  a  lot  of  the  be- 
loved  deity  ! 


I  once  read  in  an  old  Chinese  book  that 
there  was  in  ancient  time  a  poet  who  proph- 
esied war  when  he  heard  a  voice  of  the 
cuckoo  at  a  certain  bridge  at  midnight.  Who, 
I  like  to  know,  can  foretell  the  future  of 
Western  art  by  the  voice  of  an  English 
thrush  ? 

I  overheard  the  other  day  some  young  man 
exclaim  :  "  Friend,  you  reason  too  much  !  " 
That  remark  made  me  think  for  a  while,  and 
then  I  exclaimed  to  myself  :  "  "  Why  !  Have 
Japanese  come  already  to  reason  too  much  ?  " 
Only  forty  years  ago  we  were  said  to  be  bar- 
barous; and  now  we  are  too  uncomfortable 
under  the  burden  of  knowledge.  Growing, 
whether  wiser  or  foolish,  is  certainly  degen- 
eration :  if  we  could  stay  too  barbarous  as  in 
old  time  !  We  have  lost  a  personality  after  all. 

It  is  not  a  question  how  to  take  you  ;  the 
most  important  question  is  how  to  arrive  at  the 

198 


goal.  Our  Japanese  saying  has  it  that  the 
ship  will  go  up  the  hill  where  there  are  too 
many  sailors.  We  have  too  much  talk  in 
present  Japan,  have  we  not  ?  Art  has  fallen, 
and  poetry  has  fallen  ;  and  then  other  hundred 
worthy  things  have  fallen  ;  what  we  added  to 
our  original  property  was  only  a  high  hat 
marked  a  certain  Chrysty  and  a  frock  coat. 
Oh  what  a  farce  ! 

How  many  people  really  know  that  it  has 
already  dawned  when  the  crows  cry  ? 

It  is  not  difficult  to  make  a  frame ;  the  real 
issue  is  the  picture  itself.  The  Japanese 
Government  has  been  making  a  frame  for  the 
country  for  many  years  past ;  and  now  when 
the  frame  fairly  done,  she  finds  that  there  is  the 
night  already,  too  dark  to  draw  the  picture. 

Where  is  a  mountain  deep  enough  to  hide 
me  ?  And  where  is  a  river  big  enough  to 
swallow  me  ?  I  say  it,  not  because  I  am  great, 
but  because  I  am  I.  I  beg  you,  however, 
not  to  mistake  me  as  a  so-called  individualist 
199 


Through  j  founcj  on]y  lately  how  sweet  is  to  sleep. 

Torii  Is   there  any  more   sweet    word   than  good- 

night ? 

I  said  to  my  friend  that  I  must  live  at  any 
cost  till  seventy  years  old,  perhaps  ninety  years 
old  or  perhaps  one  hundred  twenty  years  old. 
It  was  only  yesterday  I  used  to  say  I  must  not 
live  to  be  more  than  twenty  five,  better  still, 
not  more  than  twenty  years.  How  beautiful 
is  Life !  How  the  sun  shines,  how  flowers 
bloom,  how  the  river  runs,  how  the  birds  fly, 
and  above  all,  how  grasses  keep  green  ! 

I  think  that  the  best  writing  of  the  English 
language  seems  to  mean  to  be  read,  while  the 
best  style  of  Chinese  writing  to  be  looked  at. 
Oh  how  I  wish  to  write  my  poetry  to  be 
smelled  ! 

Nobody  has  told  me  how  it  was  when  I 
was  born.  But  I  have  a  clear,  though  faint 
enough,  memory  of  when  my  little  sister  was 
born ;  it  was  the  hot  summer  night  when  the 
mist-purple  canopy  of  the  sky  was  studded  with 


stars  ;   that  dreamy   sight   I   remember  I  saw         From  a 

i  11  •  I'll*   11  Japanese 

through  the  mosquito  net  which  slightly  swung  Ink  slab 
like  a  lantern  hung  under  the  eaves  when  cool 
breezes  flow.  I  do  not  know  how  I  had  fallen 
in  sleep  or  dream ;  I  was  awakened  at  late 
midnight  by  a  strange  voice  of  a  new-born 
baby  who,  I  was  told  then  by  my  elder 
brother,  had  come  as  another  member  of  the 
family  only  a  little  while  before.  I  cannot 
forget  even  to-day  that  my  new  sister's  first  cry, 
whether  from  pain  or  joy,  which  still  echoes,  I 
do  think,  on  my  heart,  indeed  continually  dur- 
ing the  last  thirty  years.  It  is  not  necessary 
to  know  how  babies  are  born  ;  there  is  one's 
existence  where  his  voice  is.  That  is  enough. 
Oh  that  first  fresh  voice  or  cry  of  my  little 
sister !  Let  me  have  my  own  real  Voice  to 
prove  my  own  existence ;  oh  my  voice  like 
that  I  uttered  at  the  first  moment  when  I  left 
my  mother's  body. 

People  do  not  deny  or  approve,  strange 
enough,  on  seeing  the  flowers  blooming  and 
falling,  on  seeing  the  clouds  coming  and 
passing. 


hrough  j  usec|   to  gre  my   curiosity   and  desire   of 

Torii  boyhood  days  with  reading   an   old   warrior's 

astonishing  tales  and  legends ;  one  of  my 
favourite  heroes  was  Yoshitsune  who  in  his 
boy's  time  was  taught  mystery  and  fencing  by 
a  certain  Tengu,  a  mountain  elf  of  the  Western 
hill  from  where  a  rainbow  flashes  and  where 
the  bright  sun  has  his  nightly  bed.  Oh  how  I 
longed  for  an  acquaintance  with  that  wonder- 
ful elf  with  a  long  nose  and  wings,  when  the 
setting  sun  burned  the  Western  sky  and  hills. 
It  happened  one  evening  that  I  was  severely 
scolded  by  my  father ;  my  rebellious  little  soul 
forced  me  at  once  to  leave  the  house  and  turn 
my  hurried  step  towards  the  Western  hill, 
where  the  sunset  fire  was  burning  to  make  me 
imagine  a  strange  castle  of  beauty  and  romance, 
and  even  hear  a  word  or  two  of  that  kind  elf 
there.  My  frightened  dear  mother  pursued  me 
and  at  last  held  my  arm  and  took  me  back 
and  again  to  be  scolded  by  my  stern  father. 
But,  oh,  the  Western  hill  where  the  Tengu 
might  live  and  teach  me  Life's  mystery ;  even 
to-day  I  feel  to  hear  sometimes  his  tender  call 
from  the  far-off  rainbow  and  evening  glow. 


And  I  often  imagine  what  if  my  mother  had          Krom  « 

Japanese 
ink  Slab 


not   taken   me   back    that    evening,    well,    of 


almost  thirty  years  ago ;  I  might  have  found 
the  elf  then  by  the  singular  virtue  and  desire 
which  are  given  only  to  a  boy. 

The  heart  of  Wisdom  is  a  sorrow  and  pain. 
It  is  a  mistake  if  you  think  it  to  be  a  scalp- 
capped  old  scholar  just  stepped  out  from  the 
library  or  classroom.  Wisdom  is  a  reformed 
criminal  after  all  penalties  paid  ;  it  is  a  wrong  or 
confession  turned  to  a  saint. 

It  is  not  true  to  say  that  we  have  become 
impatient  because  we  are  wiser  than  our  fore- 
fathers. But  I  know  I  believe  that  the  realisa- 
tion of  Life'  endless  change  and  the  possibility 
of  a  never-ending  rebirth,  even  in  the  Buddhistic 
sense,  makes  me  a  wind  (what  an  impatience 
of  the  wind's  soul)  crying  in  the  wilderness. 

The  ancient  Japanese  always  held  the  same 
attitude  towards  the  world  and  life,  whether 
with  the  frost-cold  sword  at  the  moment  of 
harakiri,  or  with  the  tea-bowl  in  the  chano- 

203 


Through        yu  rjtes  .  fa^  manner  was  never  abrupt.     And 

the 

Torii 


how  they  hated  dispute   and    talk !      When 


they  had  to  dispute,  they  let  their  swords 
settle  the  point ;  and  for  talk,  they  used  the 
language  of  silence.  They  were  quiet  and 
discreet  towards  Life's  object ;  they  moved 
around  it  as  if  an  artist,  and  again  like  an  ex- 
cellent artist,  they  never  separated  it  from  its 
surroundings.  Where  they  were  faithful  to 
tradition  they  well  expressed  their  own  eccen- 
tricity ;  and  where  they  were  eccentric  they 
were  most  conventional.  How  the  times  made 
us  change  !  We  trust  too  much  in  words  ;  how 
we  assert  and  deny  when  a  question  comes 
forth!  And  like  an  amateur,  we  walk  upon 
to  Life's  stage  most  ungracefully,  often  forget 
our  lines  ;  oh,  what  poor  acting  ! 

You  must  not  come  to  see  me  till  I  tell  you 
you  may  come ;  I  must  be  sure  of  the  hour  and 
day  when  the  right  light  or  proper  shadow 
will  be  provided.  Do  you  laugh  at  me  over 
my  having  too  great  anxiety  in  my  presentation 
as  if  a  piece  of  art  rare  and  old  ?  But  what 
else  am  1,  do  you  suppose  ?  When  the  first 
204 


night  bell  rings  out,  I  will  loosen  and  let  fall  all         From  a 

Japanese 
Ink  Slab 


my  reserves;  it  is  the  time  when  my  head  will 


turn  towards  my  interlocutor.  I  will  burn  the 
incense  which  should  rise  as  the  silken  folds  of 
the  world-wearied  courtesy ;  under  them  the 
ego  in  myself  intent  but  aloof,  will  put  a  proper 
presentation  or  emphasis  on  my  life's  page. 
Come,  my  friend,  at  such  an  hour,  as  my  own 
respect  for  myself  will  then  be  the  very  respect 
for  my  art  and  song,  I  will  show  you  my 
best ;  if  you  do  not  know  how  to  come,  my 
friend,  I  will  tell  you  that  you  should  ride  on  the 
cool  breeze,  or  step  on  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

Someone  exclaimed  to  me  the  other  day: 
"  You  are  so  awfully  Japanese  and  so  awfully 
English  !  "  That  was  good  indeed.  When  I 
am  so  awfully  Japanese,  I  might  be  a  slave  to 
my  emotion ;  but  without  my  being  so  awfully 
English,  my  record  of  artistic  development 
would  not  become  visible.  I  confess,  however, 
that  I  have  a  moment  sometimes  when  I  feel  a 
secret  regret  at  my  being  so  awfully  English  ; 
is  it  not  the  reason  why  I,  seeing  greatness 
right  before  myself,  cannot  get  it  ? 
205 


Through  If   I   can   be   called    poet,    that    would    be 

Torii  through  the  virtue  that  I  carry  it  into  my  daily 

life;  when  I  am  most  poetical,  I  know  I  believe 
that  poetry  will  least  betray  itself.  When  I  am 
most  conventional,  I  feel  I  am  most  eccentric, 
therefore  finer  and  far  truer. 

To  express  my  vehemence  I  always  use 
the  language  of  silence,  that  is  the  best, 
strongest  when  crushing  rivalry ;  in  silence, 
when  I  am  best  and  strong,  I  can  be  renais- 
sance itself,  and  will  create  a  peculiar  tone  and 
shade,  let  me  dare  say,  the  beauty  of  nuance. 

If  I  look  modern,  it  is  because  I  am  human. 
If  I  am  inarticulate  in  song,  that  is  because  my 
heart  is  too  full. 

While  I  admire  your  brains,  let  me  say  that 
you  are  a  little  crude  and  flat ;  isn't  there  any 
way  for  you  to  forget  your  reaching  the  same 
old  conclusions  ?  Although  I  may  appear  to 
you  alien,  exotic,  subtle,  mysterious,  often 
baffling,  I  do  not  mean  to  become  different  from 
you  ;  and  I  always  deny  when  people  say  that 
206 


my  being  here  is  rather  a  sacrifice  and  mcon-         From  a 

\/i        i          i  i  i  1-1  Japanese 

gruity.     My   thought  is   only  to  become  like        ink  Slab 
yourself ;  if  there  is  anything  between  you  and 
me,  it  might  be  that  1  hope  to  grow  plainer. 
Do  you  call  that  eccentricity  ? 

I  am  in  truth  a  spiritual  exile,  not  because 
I  have  no  friend,  but  because  I  lost  somewhere 
a  tradition  and  environment  to  which  1  think  I 
should  belong.  And  I  hear  the  voice  calling 
from  a  hidden  world  where  more  than  one 
moon  ever  shine ;  alas,  I  do  not  know  how  to 
come  there. 

The  other  day  my  friend  told  me  about  his 
friend  who  ceased  to  be  a  poet  when  he  grew 
fat.  Oh  where  is  a  really  great  fat  poet  ? 
And  again  where  is  a  really  great  fat  artist? 
Here  turning  over  the  pages  of  the  catalogue 
of  the  Academy  Exhibition,  I  can  tell  you  the 
physiques  of  the  artists  from  their  pictures ; 
many  of  them  are  quite  fat,  are  they  not  ? 

If  I  fail  to  make  me  understood  by  the 
present  Japanese,  that  might  be  from  the  fact 


207 


Through        tnal  tney  are  \eS5  Japanese,  or  I  am,  in  truth, 
Torii  more  Japanese.     How  remote  they  are,  being 

"  un- Japanese,"  from  me  as  I  hope  to  put 
myself  side  by  side  with  the  old  centuries 
(though  I  am  not  sure  what  century)  who  better 
controlled  principle  and  flame  for  the  unity  in 
complexity;  I  always  think  it  is  perfect  nonsense 
to  say  that  the  older  rime  was  simplicity.  The 
older  age  well  understood  how  to  collect  the 
passion  and  force,  to  use  another  word,  to  put 
colour  into  the  time's  mind.  When  I  say 
that  the  present  Japanese  are  un- Japanese,  I 
like  to  dwell  on  their  hatred  of  freedom  while 
professing  love  for  it ;  in  their  anxiety  of  know- 
ledge I  see  their  cowardice. 

The  occasion  when  people  find  me  a  little 
too  difficult  always  falls  on  when  I  myself  feel 
a  little  too  shy.  It  is  strange  that  they  think  me 
delightful  when  I  feel  absolutely  hating  myself. 

How  many  people  understand  that  pencils 
were  to  write  their  mind.  There  are  people 
who  think  that  the  temples  at  Nikko  were 
built  in  one  day. 

208 


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